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chips,  feagmei^ts 
a:nt>  vestiges 


HAMILTON 


CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS 
AND  VESTIGES 


BY 

GAIL    HAMILTON 


COLLECTED    AND    ARRANGED    BY 
H.    AUGUSTA    DODGE 


BOSTON 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD 

1902 


COPTBIGHT,  1902,  BY  H.  AUGUSTA  DODOE. 

PuBUSHXD,  August,  1902. 


All  rights  reaerved. 


CHIPS,  FRA6XBNT8,  AND  TB8TI6BB  OF  TEB8K 
BT  GAII.  HAMILTON. 


BOSTON 


TO 


THE     DEAR     AND     CHERISHED     MEMORY     OF 

flDart?  abbi?  Bobge 

WITH     THE     WISH     THAT     ALL     HER     FRIENDS     MAY     SHARE 
THE     PLEASURE     OF     ITS     PERUSAL 

THIS   LITTLE   BOOK  IS    DEDICATED 

BT     HER     SISTER 


i:N^TRODUCTIO]Sr 


Among  my  sister's  papers  were  several  rhyming 
manuscripts  —  the  earliest,  dated  1841,  when  she  Avas 
eight  years  old,  is  here  a  facsimile : 

0-^  oe/^  ^  cc^  ^a£^  ^^^^yj(  , 


This  "  was  solemnly  and  silently  handed  to  mother  " 
by  the  little  author  after  she  had  discovered  the 
hiding-place. 

An  old-fashion  letter-paper  sheet,  yellow  with  age, 
bearing  the   head-line,  "Chips  and  Parings,"  in  the 


Vi  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

same  immature  handwriting,  is  filled  with  verses 
about  "The  Dead  Bird,"  "Slavery,"  "The  Four 
Seasons  of  Life,"  etc. 

Another  sheet,  foolscap  size,  is  covered  with  "  Mary 
A.  Dodge's  Scribbles  "  —  all  before  she  was  twelve 
years  old.  During  her  school  life  as  pupil  and  teacher 
she  wrote  "  in  numbers  "  that  were  printed  in  differ- 
ent newspapers,  on  programmes  for  special  occasions, 
and  afterward  various  hymns,  odes,  and  poems,  as  late 
as  the  year  1894.^  In  presenting  her  early  writings, 
no  attempt  has  been  made  to  amend  any  childish 
inaccuracies  of  expression  that  may  appear. 

Though  she  herself  made  no  pretences  to  being  a 
poetess  or  writing  poetry,  divers  of  her  papers  were 
marked  "  chips,"  "  shavings,"  "  fragment,"  "  vestige," 
etc.,  which  it  has  been  a  delight  to  me  to  read,  and  to 
collect  into  a  volume  "  named  with  her  name." 

H.  Augusta  Dodge. 

Hamilton,  March  31,  1902. 


1  [In  1893,  "  English  Kings  in  a  Nutshell  —  Gail  Hamilton,"  was  pub- 
lished by  the  American  Book  Company,  The  author  says  in  the  preface: 
"  The  verses  include  all  the  English  monarchs,  their  relation  to  their  snc- 
cessors,  the  time  and  length  of  each  reign,  and  one  or  two  prominent  events 
or  prominent  names  that  marked  its  course.  .  .  .  The  illustrations  not 
only  repeat  and  intensify,  but  enlarge,  the  story  of  the  text,  and  thus  add  a 
distinct  and  special  value  to  my  booklet."] 


co:n^te]n^ts 


PA»S 

The  Rose 1 

The  Dead  Bird 2 

An  Epic  of  a  Boy 2 

In  the  Streets  of  "  Old  Lan  "    •         .         .         .         .4 

"Paying  Him  Back" 5 

Childhood         .........  6 

Slavery    7 

Independence  .........  8 

Selfishness 10 

Lines          ••........  11 

The  Bridal  and  the  Funeral 12 

"The  Little  One  Gone  Before"         ....  14 

The  Lost  Fan 15 

A  Tragedy 18 

Pictures 21 

Lines  to  My  Algebra     .......  22 

An  Acrostic     .........  26 

That  Old  Knife 27 

A  Dream  ..........  31 

"The  Hand"  .........  35 

The  Song  of  the  Gout  .         .         .         .   ^     .         .44 

Lines  Written  in  My  Brother's  Album       ...  45 

A  Requiem  for  the  Departed 51 

The  Last  Indian 53 

To  Jose  Bardottee         .......  66 

To  AN  Ancient  Shoe       . 68 


viii         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

PASS 

A  Parody 61 

A  Metrical  Romance 64 

"  Little  Katy  " 79 

DlTHYRAMBIC       .........  82 

The  Youth  at  the  Fountain 83 

Hope 84 

From  the  German 85 

The  Mysterious  Maiden 87 

Sehn-sucht 89 

Midnight            .........  90 

Resolution 92 

Morning 95 

Alone         ..........  97 

Shadows   ..........  99 

"  Man  Goeth  to  the  Grave  and  Where  is  He  V  "     .  100 

To  101 

To  103 

What  it  Meant        ........  104 

' '  Not  All  a  Dream  " 105 

The  Rain 107 

To  —  You !     If  You  Understand  Them       .         .  108 

To  Agnes  O'Brien 109 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  B Ill 

Vale  et  Salve 113 

Vale  et  Salve  Again! 116 

AlLANTHi 116 

Popping  the  Question! 119 

A  Battle  Song  for  Freedom 121 

Archie  Dean.     By  Jenny  Marsh  Parker     .                  .  123 

What  You'd  Better  Do,  Jenny  Marsh                  .         .  126 

What  I  Did,  Gail  Hamilton.     By  Jenny  Marsk         .  129 

On  the  Sidewalk 133 

O  Land  Beyond  the  Sounding  Sba!     ....  136 

To  Ellen  Augusta  Hunt  in  Alabama           .         .         .  138 


CONTENTS  ix 

FAGB 

Dk.  Kane 140 

The  Nosiad 143 

The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  Under  Difficulties        .  148 

A  Valedictory         ........  153 

To  Dr.  Murdoch 157 

To  Mr.  Owen 157 

To  Mr.  Smith 158 

Antenatal         .........  162 

To  C.  L.  Tallant 162 

Vestiges  ..........  170 

To  Mrs.  Bailey 170 

To  Mr.  George  Wood 171 

To  Dr.  Bailey 171 

To  172 

Pencilbd-Sketch 173 

By  the  Sea 174 

A  Vision 175 

"Ettie" 179 

Original  Ode 181 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Semi-Cbntbnnial  in  Braintree    .  184 

Answered 188 

Hymn  for  Agricultural  Association  ....  196 

Repartee  with  John  G.  Whittier         ....  198 

Hamilton  Tea  Party 201 

Trosy's  Defence 206 

To  Secretary  Robeson 210 

To  Mrs.  Hale 211 

Mother  Ipswich      ........  212 

To  Little  "c" 216 

Birthdays         .........  217 

The  Flower 219 

Lines  on  100th  Anniversary  of  Hamilton  .         .         .  221 

To  MY  Comrades  in  Christ 224 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Mart  Abbt  Dodge,  1854         ....  Frontiipiece 

A  Dkawing-Lesson,   '*  Ips.  Fem.   Sbm."  Facing  page       14 

"Home" "        "        184 

a  cornee  in  the  library      .        .         .  "        "       200 


CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,  AND 
VESTIGES 


T 


THE   EOSE 

Written  in  the  winter  of  1842  (at  the  age  of  nine) 

HE  rose  is  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 

That  fearfully  peep  from  their  verdant  bowers ; 

Reclining  in  the  gentle  shade, 

A  lovely  and  embowering  maid. 

Attracting  all  that  pass  her  there, 
By  her  sweet  countenance,  and  fair. 
Gaining  herself  friends  every  day, 
As  does  the  blooming  flower  of  May. 

And  when  her  leaves  are  strewed  around. 
In  withering  fragments  on  the  ground. 
Still  we  inhale  her  sweet  perfume, 
As  when  she  was  in  youthful  bloom. 


A 


CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

THE   DEAD   BIRD 

S  I  was  going  from  school  one  night, 

I  saw  a  little  bird ; 
But  the  poor  thing  had  ceased  its  flight, 
Its  notes  were  no  more  heard. 

No  more  it  bounds  'long  through  the  air, 

No  more  it  builds  its  nest, 
No  more  we  see  its  plumage  fair ; 

Its  first  days  were  its  best. 

The  hard  ground  bore  its  little  head, 

And  cold  and  stifE  it  lied ;  * 
For  its  life  had  forever  fled  — 

The  little  bird  had  died. 


AN   EPIC   OF  A   BOY 

A  LITTLE  boy  sat  by  a  rippling  brook, 
And  as  he  sat,  he  tried,  with  line  and  hook, 
To  catch  a  fish,  but  no  fish  could  he  see  ; 
He  tried  and  tried  awhile  —  then,  looking  up,  saw  me. 

"  My  child,"  said   I,  "  you  must  put  up  your  hook ; 

There  are  no  fishes  in  this  little  brook." 

Then,  as    he  looked    at  me,    he  smiled  a  mournful 

smile ; 
Said  he,  "  I  have  been  here  a  long,  long  while. 

*  Too  young  for  grammatical  rales,  but  took  poet's  license  naturally. 


AN   EPIC   OF   A   BOY  3 

*'  I  have  no  home,  no  friends,  no  food,  no  bed, 
No  place  whereon  to  lay  my  weary  head ; 
My  drunken  father  turned  me  from  his  door  ; 
The  heaven's  the  ceiling  of  my  house,  the  earth  here 
is  the  floor." 

"  My  boy,"  said  I,  "  you  may  come  home  with  me, 
My  home  a  pleasant  home  to  you  shall  be." 
Then  he  got  up  and  gratefully  took  my  hand ; 
"  And  will  you  be  to  me,"  said  he,  "  a  friend  ?  " 

"  Your  father  has  forsaken  you,  you  have  no  other 

friend, 
And  I,  most  cheerfully,  to  you  a  helping  hand  will 

lend." 
There  rested  on  his  countenance  a  very  grateful  look, 
And  he  is  happy  now,  although  by  his  father  is  forsook. 

Ye  drunken  parents,  oh  !  beware 
How  you  deprive  your  children  of  your  care  ; 
Ye  sell  yourselves  to  buy  that  poisonous  rum. 
And  turn  your  own,  own  children  from  their  home. 


4  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

1842 
IN   THE   STEEETS   OF   "OLD   LAN" 

ALONG  time  ago,  in  the  streets  of  "  Old  Lan," 
There  once  lived  a  poor  but  respectable  man. 
His  station  was  low,  and  his  height  it  was  lower. 
His  wife's  was  six  feet  and  his  was  just  four. 

Beside  her,  three  daughters  and  one  son  had  he  ; 
He  was  happy  as  ever  man  could  wish  to  be  ; 
For  all  that  he  wanted  was  plenty  of  bread 
And  comfortable  clothes,  he  always  said. 

His  name  was  Charles  Macbee,  a  farmer  by  trade. 
And  he  dextrously  handled  the  axe  and  the  spade  ; 
But  as  most  men  have  enemies,  so  did  he. 
And  a  terrible  one  came  to  Charles  Macbee. 

And  vast  havoc  he  made  when  he  did  come. 
For  he  came  in  the  dreadful  form  of  rum. 
And  Charley  found  him  an  inveterate  foe, 
For  he  often  was  high,  and  at  times  quite  low. 

And  then  Charley  found  his  house  out  of  repair, 
A  clapboard  off  here  and  a  shingle  off  there, 
And  the  cold  wind  whistled  through  broken  glass. 
And  then  the  poor  drunkard  would  think  of  the  past 


PAYING  HIM  BACK  5 

And  yet  he  grew  worse  and  worse  every  day, 
In  spite  of  all  things  that  his  poor  wife  could  say ; 
But  at  length  she  found  that  it  did  no  good, 
And  she  let  hiin  alone  to  do  as  he  would. 

At  last  he  was  arrested  and  held  to  bail, 
Tried  and  found  guilty,  and  carried  to  jail. 
This  was  too  much  for  his  heart-stricken  wife, 
And,  alas  !  sad  to  tell,  it  shortened  her  life. 

And  his  poor  children,  too,  without  shoes  to  their  feet 
Or  hats  to  their  heads,  went  along  through  the  street ; 
Their  father's  in  jail  and  their  mother  was  dead, 
And  left  the  poor  children  to  beg  for  their  bread. 

0  reader,  beware,  lest  you  too  should  become 
A  votary  to  this  all-poisonous  Rum. 
But  if  you  have  begun,  I  pray  you,  refrain, 
And  ne'er  place  the  cup  to  your  lips  again. 


T 


"PAYING   HIM   BACK" 

HAT  is  right,  Emma,  go  and  tell 
Of  Dervan's  carryings-on. 
For  thou  hast  borne  them  very  well ; 
Yea,  thou  hast  borne  them  long. 


CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

No  matter  if  he's  very  mad, 
No  matter  if  he'll  scold ; 
You  know  that  he  was  very  bad, 
As  I  have  oft  been  told. 

So  now  make  haste  and  speed  thy  flight, 
And  tell  mamma  the  news  ; 
Don't  be  afraid,  for  thou  art  right ; 
I'll  bear  all  the  abuse. 

I  know  full  many  a  saucy  word 
That  he  hath  said  to  thee. 
And  many  a  saucy  word  I've  heard 
That  he  has  said  to  me ! 


LINES 

SUPPOSED    TO    BE    WRITTEN     BY     A     YOUTH    WHEN    FAR 
AWAY  FROM  THE    HOME  OF    HIS  CHILDHOOD  (1844) 


T 


HERE  is  one  spot  in  all  this  world  so  wide 

To  which  my  recollection  still  is  tied, 
And  oft  I've  lifted  up  my  voice  and  cried. 
Oh  !  take  me  to  my  home. 

And  oft  I've  sat  me  down  alone  and  thought 
Of  the  fond  smile  which  eagerly  I  sought, 
When  I,  a  child,  was  by  my  mother  taught 
At  my  sweet  home. 


SLAVERY 

I've  thought,  too,  of  the  many  pleasant  hours 
I've  spent  'mid  shady  trees  and  verdant  bowers, 
In  culling  all  the  sweet  and  pretty  flowers 
For  friends  at  home. 

I've  thought  of  many  a  lively,  sportive  run 
My  dear,  kind  father  had  with  "little  son," 
When  the  hard  labor  of  the  day  was  done, 
At  my  sweet  home. 

But  now,  alas  !  this  happiness  is  gone, 
I  look  on  every  side  —  all  are  unknown. 
Oh  !  in  this  dreary  world  I  am  alone, 
Without  a  home. 


L 


SLAVERY 

O,  Afric's  sons  in  bondage  stand, 
Fettered  and  chained  from  foot  to  hand, 
Driven  along  from  street  to  street. 
Considered  slaves  by  those  they  meet. 

And  when  they're  sold  and  settled,  then 
They  work  much  more  like  brutes  than  men  ; 
Their  owners  stand  with  whip  in  hand, 
While  they  sweat  upon  his  land. 


CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

And  when  they  lag,  from  want  of  rest, 
The  whip  unto  their  back  is  prest ; 
They  smart  with  pain,  he  will  not  save. 
Oh !  it  is  hard  to  be  a  slave. 

And  when  their  daily  round  of  toil 
Is  finished  on  the  owner's  soil, 
They  turn  into  some  hovel  mean, 
That's  neither  tidy,  nice,  or  clean. 

And  when  their  scanty  food  they  eat. 
The  hard  ground  serves  them  for  a  seat. 
This  is  the  life  the  slave  must  lead 
And  have  no  time  to  write  or  read. 

Their  owners  think  not  of  their  food, 
They  think  not  of  their  slave's  best  good, 
They  think  not  of  the  pain  they  gave. 
But,  oh !  'tis  hard  to  be  a  slave. 


INDEPENDENCE     (1845) 

H  !  what  is  Independence  ? 
Perhaps  some  child  may  say, 
I  hear  them  tell  a  great  deal 
Of  Independent  day. 


INDEPENDENCE 

When  our  forefathers  lived, 
There  were  many  cruel  kings 
Who  did  provoke  them  sadly, 
By  many  wicked  things. 

They  would  not  give  them  freedom. 
Yet  made  them  taxes  pay ; 
They  had  governors  who  ruled  them 
In  an  oppressive  way. 

Their  kings  would  give  them  charters, 
And  some  were  good  and  wise ; 
But  there  were  so  many  bad  ones 
That  these  were  quite  a  prize. 

But  when  he  saw  fit  to  take 

These  charters  all  away, 

It  must  be  done  —  for  none  would  dare 

His  orders  disobey. 

And  the  produce  that  they  raised 
They  wa'n't  allowed  to  sell, 
Unless  to  English  merchants, 
Which  did  not  please  them  well. 

For  some  time  their  wrongs  they  bore. 
Although  with  discontent. 
Till  to  their  smothered  feelings 
They  did  at  last  give  vent. 


10  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

For  on  the  fourth  of  July, 
Without  fear  or  delay, 
They  declared  that  they  were  free ; 
'Twas  an  eventful  day. 

And  to  support  this  freedom 
They  had  fearfully  to  fight ; 
But  conscience  did  sustain  them, 
They  felt  that  they  were  right 

And  now,  this  is  the  meaning, 
Give  ear  to  what  I  say. 
Remember  your  forefathers 
On  Independent  day. 


V 


SELFISHNESS     (1845) 

HAT  is  the  cause  of  misery, 
The  cause  of  war  and  strife, 
The  cause  of  much  unhappiness 
In  this  short,  fleeting  life  ? 
I  scruple  not  the  cause  to  tell  — 
'Tis  selfishness,  I  know  full  well. 

What  is  the  cause  of  murders,  thefts. 
Of  hard  words  and  of  blows  ? 
What  is't  that  causes  more  than  half 
Of  mankind's  real  woes  ? 
I  scruple  not  the  cause  to  tell  — 
'Tis  selfishness,  I  know  full  well. 


DEATH  OF   A  FAVORITE   DOG  H 

What  is  the  cause  of  bleeding  hearts, 

Of  silent  grief  and  tears,  — 

What  is  the  cause  of  partings  sad, 

And  many  anxious  fears  ? 

I  scruple  not  the  cause  to  tell  — 

'Tis  selfishness,  I  know  full  well. 


LIKES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  DOG  WHO  WAS 
KILLED  BY  THE  CABS 

POOE  Jessie  !  thou  art  gone  ; 
Thy  pilgrimage  is  o'er ; 
The  pleasures  of  this  life 
Thou  wilt  enjoy  no  more. 
Yet  thou'st  accomplished  well  thy  end : 
In  losing  thee  we've  lost  a  friend. 

Poor  Jessie  !  thou  art  gone ; 

Thy  lamp  of  life  is  out ; 

Dangers  have  battled  with 

Thy  constitution  stout ; 
But  battled  they  in  vain  with  thee, 
As  in  the  sequel  all  can  see. 

Poor  Jessie  !  thou  art  gone ; 
Thy  thread  of  life  was  spun 
To  an  uncommon  length, 
Yet  now  thy  days  are  done. 


12  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

An  iron  hand  did  end  thy  life 
With  perils  and  with  courage  rife. 

Poor  Jessie  !  thou  art  gone  ; 

We  bid  thee  now  adieu ; 

No  person  e'er  shall  be 

Attended  more  by  you  ; 
In  peace  and  quiet  thou  shalt  lie  ; 
Jessie,  we  bid  thee  now,  good-by. 


Abbt. 


Septehbek,  1846. 


THE   BRIDAL  AND   THE   FUNERAL 

I  SAW  her  at  the  altar, 
Arrayed  in  purest  white ; 
Her  beauteous  cheek  was  glowing, 
Her  eye  was  clear  and  bright. 

I  saw  the  bridegroom  standing 
So  happy  by  her  side, 
And  proudly  gazing  on  her. 
His  sweet  and  gentle  bride. 

They  knelt  before  the  altar. 
That  lovely  youthful  pair, 
And  manliness  and  sweetness 
I  saw  contrasted  there. 


THE  BRIDAL  AND  THE   FUNERAL  13 

And  when  the  aged  pastor 
In  low  but  thrilling  tone, 
Had  said,  with  deep  emotion. 
The  words  that  made  them  one, 

He  prayed  that  life  before  them 
Might  ever  be  as  bright. 
That  no  dark  clouds  of  sorrow 
Might  intercept  the  light. 

And  as  the  bridegroom  bore  her 
From  home  and  friends  away, 
Full  many  a  prayer,  I  ween. 
Went  up  for  her  that  day. 

'Twas  twelve  months  ere  I  saw  her, 
Then  in  the  self -same  place  — 
The  church  where  she  was  married  — 
I  saw  again  her  face. 

But  what  a  change  I  witnessed  ! 
She,  who  a  year  ago 
Was  full  of  youthful  buoyancy, 
By  death  was  now  laid  low. 

That  eye,  so  bright  and  sparkling, 
No  more  shall  view  earth's  scenes ; 
That  cheek  is  cold  and  deathly, 
And  marble-like  it  seems. 


14  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

And  he,  to  whom  were  plighted 
The  youthful  vows  of  love, 
He,  too,  was  gone  before  her 
To  welcome  her  above. 

Thus  ever  is  it  here  below  : 
Those  hopes  which  surest  seem 
Are  often  blighted,  and  we  wake 
To  find  life's  but  a  dream 
1847. 


THE   LITTLE  ONE  GONE  BEFORE 


A 


NOTHER  silver  voice  has  gone 
To  join  the  choir  around  the  Throne. 
Another  angel  hand  doth  hold 
And  sweetly  tune  a  harp  of  gold. 
A  bud  of  rarest,  priceless  worth, 
Too  beautiful  and  pure  for  earth. 
Is  gently  plucked,  beyond  the  skies 
To  bloom  for  aye,  —  in  Paradise. 

But  ah  !  a  place  is  vacant  here. 
But  lately  filled  by  one  so  dear ; 
And  many  a  heart-chord's  rudely  riven ; 
Oh,  will  they  not  be  joined  in  Heaven  ? 


w^ — y 


.^~^.:  F:  (  I  \ 


^'  -±-\  a- 


N, 


■'<  < 


^: 


fc^.^^* 


A  Drawing-  Lesson. 

Ipswich  Female  Seminary. 

Mary  A.  Dodge,  No.  3. 


THE  LOST  FAN  15 

Ye've  seen  her  in  Death's  cold  embrace, 
Ye  've  looked  upon  her  marble  face  ; 
But  not  beneath  the  coffin  lid 
The  beauteous  cherished  one  is  hid. 
Far,  far  beyond  the  dreary  tomb. 
Beyond  its  cold  and  cheerless  gloom, 
Beyond,  beyond  the  clear  blue  sky, 
In  Jesus'  bosom  doth  she  lie. 

Then  lay  her  calmly  in  the  dust, 
Though  very  dear  she  was  to  us. 
And  let  us  not  her  loss  deplore. 
Think  her  "  not  lost,  but  gone  before." 
Her  early  death  was  surely  given 
A  bond  to  draw  us  nearer  heaven. 

Ipswich  Fehalb  Seminary,  1847. 


B 


THE   LOST   FA2T 

EREAVED  one,  when  this  you  read, 
Alas  !  I  fear  your  heart  will  bleed ; 
But  think,  I  pray,  upon  that  line 
Which  in  the  Scriptures  you  will  find : 
Forgive  all  those  who  ask  to  be  forgiven. 
How  many  times  ?     Threescore  and  ten  times 

seven. 
********** 


16  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

But  to  my  story  I'll  proceed, 

Although  'tis  very  sad  indeed. 

One  very  sultry  summer  day 

Sarah  and  I  were  on  our  way, 

Taking  a  walk  up  in  the  street, 

Dragging  along  our  weary  feet ; 

For,  as  I  said,  'twas  very  hot ; 

I  rather  think  that  we  should  not 

Have  walked  at  all,  but  that  'tis  said 

A  walk  is  good  for  a  weary  head ; 

And  as  I'd  used  my  brainless  pate 

(Though  "  soft,"  'tis  tough  at  any  rate) 

Early  at  morn  and  late  at  eve, 

I  thought  'twas  just  it  should  receive 

A  little  rest,  and  so  I  went 

Into  the  street  to  take  the  vent, 

I  was  so  warm  that  in  my  hand 

I  took  your  precious  little  fan. 

But  little  dreaming  at  that  time 

My  walk  would  e'er  be  told  in  rhyme. 

Well,  we  had  nearly  reached  the  end 

Of  our  little  journey,  when 

I  chanced  to  think  that  I  must  go 

Up  to  the  Seminary,  so 

I  turned  my  steps ;  'twas  almost  eight. 

And  as  S.  feared  she  should  be  late 

If  she  went  up,  she  therefore  said  : 

"  I  will  go  home  and  go  to  bed. 


THE   LOST   FAN  17 

Give  me  your  fan,  I  am  so  warm, 
I  will  protect  it  from  all  harm." 
Then,  thoughtlessly,  I  did  consign 
That  precious,  priceless  fan  of  thine 
To  one,  alas !  who  did  not  know 
How  much  of  weal,  how  much  of  woe 
Was  centred  in  that  little  toy 
Which  formed  its  owner's  light  and  joy. 
When  I  came  home,  all  warm  and  tired, 
My  bonnet  off,  I  soon  inquired 
After  my  fan  —  it  was  not  there  ! 
I  wrung  my  hands  and  tore  my  hair. 
"  Where  is  my  fan  ?  "  in  grief  I  cried. 
"  I  do  not  know,"  S.  soon  replied. 
Day  after  day  I  sought  in  vain. 
"  You  ne'er  will  see  your  fan  again," 
All  coldly  said,  nor  seemed  to  see 

The  grief  which  was  consuming  me. 

***** 

One  morning  bright  and  warm,  I  stood 

Viewing  the  fields,  in  thoughtful  mood. 

When  suddenly  my  gaze  was  caught 

By  something  that  dispelled  all  thought. 

I  clapped  my  hands  and  cried,  "  'Tis  found ! " 

And  sure  enough,  there  on  the  ground, 

I  saw,  outstretched,  the  little  fan 

Which  erst  had  caused  me  so  much  pain. 

I  caught  it  up,  but,  ah !  'twas  then 

The  wreck  of  what  it  once  had  been ; 


18  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Covered  with  dirt,  all  beaten,  torn, 
And  by  some  chance  wind  had  been  borne 
From  fields  afar,  unto  the  place 
Where  I  had  recognized  its  face. 
I  mourned  much  for  my  faithful  friend 
Who'd  come  to  this  untimely  end ; 
And  o'er  its  grave  (pray  do  not  laugh) 
I  placed  the  following  epitaph  ; 

Here  lies  my  fan,  a  faithful  friend,  and  true. 
Though  not  imknown  to  me,  perhaps  it  was  to  you, 
For  it  has  lived  a  private  life,  and  never  was   its 

name 
Proclaimed    abroad    upon    the   earth   by   the    silver 

trump  of  Fame ; 
Though  it  was  loved  by  me  'twas  brought  in  this  dark 

place  to  lodge. 
By  the  very  faulty  thoughtlessness  of 

Mabt  Abby  Dodge. 

Summer,  1847. 

A   TRAGEDY 

(as  naerated  by  a  little  school-mate) 
OUNG  Albert  leaned  against  the  door 


Y 


And  looked  upon  the  earth. 
What  sad  event,  thought  I,  has  come 

Thus  to  disturb  your  mirth  ? 
When  looking  up  with  thoughtful  brow. 
He  slowly  said,  "  They've  killed  our  cow." 


A  TRAGEDY  19 

'Twas  ludicrous ;  a  reaction 

Over  my  feelings  came. 
"  Who  did  the  deed  ?  "  said  I  to  him ; 

"  Do  you  not  know  his  name  ?  " 
"  Dunnels,"  said  he,  then  told  me  how 
The  cruel  man  had  "killed  our  cow.'" 

0  what  portentous  thing  shall  come, 

To  agitate  this  earth ! 
Is  war  and  rapine  drawing  near, 

A  famine  or  a  dearth  ? 
For  something  must  be  coming  now 
And  why  ?  because  "  they've  killed  our  cow  ! " 

0  moon  that  lookest  down  on  us 

With  kindly  smiling  face. 
Tell  us  what  thing  is  coming  to 

Exterminate  our  race  ? 
For  surely,  I  suppose  that  thou, 
Ere  this,  dost  know  "  they've  killed  our  cow  !  " 

0  sun !  the  point  whence  light  and  heat 

Do  daily  emanate, 
Proclaim  from  thee  to  "  Le  Verrier  " 

This  earth's  peculiar  state. 
From  thy  high  station  deign  to  bow. 
And  tell  to  all  "  they've  killed  our  cow !  " 


20  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

O  stars  !  ye  fixed  stars  ! 

Stars  of  the  milky  way  ! 
Who'rt  siins,  yet  nothing  can  we  see 

Save  but  a  feebler  ray, 
Proclaim  through  all  thy  systems  now 
This  startling  fact,  "  they've  killed  our  cow ! " 

"  My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done," 

I  have  proclaimed  to  all 
Who  live  upon  the  surface  of 

This  sublunary  ball. 
In  the  lines  that  I  have  written  now, 
The  fact  that "  Dunnels  killed  our  cow !  " 

Now  may'st  thou  go,  poetic  Muse ; 

Perhaps  I'll  ne'er  again 
Call  upon  thee,  at  least  till  thou'rt 

More  willing  to  descend. 
And  may  that  be  when  I  tell  how 

"  Dunnels  "  again  shall  "  kill  our  cow." 

Abby. 
Dec.  11,  1847. 


PICTURES  21 


PICTURES 


A 


H  !  sweet  was  the  time 

As  a  tender  rhyme 
In  the  beautiful  long  ago, 

That  I  drew  on  my  slate, 

All  out  of  my  pate. 
Three  pictures,  all  in  a  row. 

The  first  was  a  picture 

Of  lovely  nature. 
In  the  shape  of  my  father's  hoe ; 

The  next  was  a  frog 

Behind  a  log, 
And  the  third  was  a  great  black  crow. 

Alas !  alas  ! 

For  the  days  that  are  past ! 
Alas  for  the  great  black  crow  ! 

Oh !  sweet  was  the  time 

As  a  tender  rhyme. 
But  it  faded  in  long  ago. 


22  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

LINES   TO   MY   ALGEBRA 

Winter  of  1847-48 

THOU  mighty  troubler  of  the  school-girl's  brain, 
Though  thou   hast  vexed   me  oft,   yet  would  I 
fain 
Address  to  thee  my  simple,  humble  lays, 
And  teach  my  feeble  Muse  to  sing  thy  praise. 

0  Algebra !  much  more  of  toil  and  pain 

Thou'st  caused  me  than  thou  e'er  shalt  cause  again. 

The  rising  sun  has  found  me  bending  o'er 

The  problems  over  which  I  bend  no  more. 

The  evening  breeze  has  fanned  my  burning  brow 

(Nay,  do  not  smile  at  all  my  troubles  now,) 

And  when  in  weariness  I  sought  my  bed, 

Dreams   of  equations,  roots,  and  fractions  filled  my 

head. 
Alas  !  how  dull  my  intellect  must  be ! 

1  wonder  what  my  teachers  thought  of  me  ; 
I  wonder  how  I  must  have  seemed  to  them, 
When  scarce  the  easiest  steps  I'd  comprehend. 
And,  musing  on  this,  I  might  almost  say 

(If  'twere  not  wrong)  with  one  who's  passed  away, 
"  0  that  some  power  the  gift  would  gie'  us 
To  see  oursel'  as  others  see  us." 

When  I  had  learned  to  add,  subtract,  divide, 
And  multiply,  I  thought  the  rest  beside 


LINES  TO   MY  ALGEBRA  23 

Would  seem  quite  easy  and  quite  plain  to  me, 

But  I  was  doomed  to  disappointed  be  ; 

For  soon,  alas  !  how  very  soon,  I  found 

Each  section,  chapter,  problem  that  came  round 

Was  harder  than  the  former,  soon  was  taught 

To  think  no  more  of  ease  till  every  sum  was  wrought. 

Your  fractions  of  which  some  complain,  ne'er  troubled 

me  as  yet. 
For  I  learned  from  "  Father  Greenleaf  "  what  I  shall 

not  soon  forget. 
I  puzzled  over  his  enough  to  last  a  dozen  years ; 
Indeed,  my  whole  scholastic  life's  been  one  of  puzzling 

fears. 

Simple  Equations  !  they  were  my  delight. 

For  I  could  almost  always  bring  them  right,  — 

Your  Involution,  Evolution,  too, 

I  think  are  not  most  difficult  to  do. 

Of  indices  and  roots,  what  shall  I  say  ? 

Direct  reciprocal,  or  any  way, 

I  cannot  bear  the  sight,  or  sound,  or  thought. 

Though  'twill  not  do  to  let  them  be  forgot. 

Well  may  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  memory  find 
A  dwelling-place  in  every  human  mind ! 
Well  may  his  monumental  tower  ascend  ! 
Tho  'twere  for  nought  excepting  his  Binomial  Theo- 
rem. 


24  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

To  complete  the  square's  a  pleasing  process,  quite, 

If  one  takes  care  enough  to  do  it  right. 

Your  Unknown  Quantities,  one,  two,  three,  four. 

Of  these  I  think  I'd  better  say  no  more. 

If  they  were  hard  the  fault  was  all  in  me, 

Therefore  I  will  not  lay  the  blame  on  thee. 

Progression  and  Proportion  and  Eatio,  all  combined, 
Are  not  so  hard,  I  think,  to  do  as  others  we  might 

find. 
Square   roots  of  compound  quantities,  what  shall    I 

say  of  these  ? 
They're  very  like  Arithmetic  and  can  be  done  with 

ease. 

At  your  Miscellaneous  Problems  I  oft  cast  a  wistful 

look. 
For  with  the  last  of  them  I  saw  the  "  Finis  "  of  the 

book. 
And  who  shall  bid  me  not  be  glad  to  reach  the  wished- 

for  goal ? 
Bidden  or  not,  I  do  rejoice,  and  from  my  inmost  soul. 

And  having  toiled  so  much,  so  long,  my  Algebra,  for 

thee, 
I'd  like  to  ask,  most  worthy  book,  what  have  you  done 

for  me  ? 
Am  I  wiser,  am  I  better,  than  when,  in  former  hours, 
I  knew  not  of  your  indices,  your  fractions,  roots,  or 

powers  ? 


LINES   TO  MY  ALGEBRA  26 

Alas !   how  little  do  I   know !    not  one-half  what   I 

ought, 
For  knowledge  with  half  eagerness  enough  I  have  not 

sought ; 
And  many,  many  idle  hours  have  now  forever  gone 
And  left  behind  their  shadows  dark  for  me  to  think 

upon. 


And  as  I  look  on  thy  familiar  face. 

My  Algebra,  thou  tak'st  me  to  the  place 

Where  all  thy  sums  and  problems  first  were  wrought, 

Where  all  thy  intricacies  first  were  taught 

To  me.     I  think  of  hours  past. 

Of  hours  too  happy,  far,  for  aye  to  last. 

Ah!    Earth's  inhabitants  may  not  enjoy 

The  sweets  of  friendship,  here,  without  alloy. 

Sad  memory,  ever  faithful  to  her  trust. 

Brings  me  the  thought  of  one,  now  laid  in  dust ; 

Of  one  who  conned  thy  pages  with  me  o'er ; 

Of  one  who'll  con  them  with  me,  now,  no  more. 

Her  frail  and  fragile  form  could  not  withstand 

The  icy  touch  of  the  grim  Angel's  hand. 

Ere  that  the  weight  of  time  was  on  her  brow. 

E'en  then,  the  fell  Destroyer  laid  her  low. 

In  the  damp,  darksome  grave  her  loved  form  lies  ; 

No  more  her  sweet  face  meets  our  longing  eyes ; 

No  more  her  voice,  in  music  tones,  shall  greet 

The  ears  of  those  who're  wont  with  her  to  meet. 


26  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Disease  has  breathed  on  her  his  withering  breath, 
And  laid  her  prostrate  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Ah !  many  associations  with  thee  dwell  1 

I  may  not  linger  round  them.     My  Algebra,  farewell. 


n 


AN  ACROSTIC 

AY  flowers  in  sweet  profusion  bloom 
Around  your  path,  dear  friend ; 
Roses  most  bounteously  along 
Your  way,  may  Heaven  send. 

Ever  may  you,  by  virtue  led, 
Life's  mazes  most  serenely  tread ; 
Love  be  the  sun  that  lights  your  way. 
Ever  illume  the  darkest  day, 
Nor  e'er  on  thee  omit  to  shed  an  ever  brighten- 
ing ray. 

Virtue,  dear  Mary,  brings  its  own  reward. 
As  other  lips  than  mine  have  often  told ; 
Rarer  than  gold  or  diamonds  to  be  found, 
Ne'er  given  or  received,  or  bought  or  sold ; 
E'en  in  that  better  world  its  worth  is  known. 
Yet  shines  with  brilliant  lustre  in  our  own. 


THAT   OLD  KNIFE  27 

Shall  you  and  I,  dear  Mary,  e'er  attain, 
As  with  a  rapid  step  we  take  our  flight 
Life's  labyrinth  through,  virtue  immaculate, 
Even  without  a  single  stain  that  might 
Mar  its  clear,  guileless  loveliness,  or  darken  its 
pure  light  ? 

May  your  steps  ever  wend  to  that  fair  goal. 
And  may  it  be  refreshing  to  your  soul ; 
Sweetly  in  this  life  may  you  ever  dwell. 
Still  happier,  sweeter,  in  the  world  above,  — 
farewell ! 

Maby  Abby  Dodge. 
Ipswich,  Apkil  27,  1848. 


TO   MY  MOTHER 

These  lines  are  affectionately  inscribed 

THAT    OLD    KNIFE 


Ti 


HAT  old  knife. 

It  is  of  ancient  mould, 

It  is  not  made  of  silver, 

Nor  yet  of  burnished  gold. 

The  handle  is  of  horn 

And  the  blade  is  made  of  steel, 

Yet  not  the  less  respect 

Do  I  towards  it  feel. 


28  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

'Tis  not  the  warrior's  blade 
Oft  sheathed  in  blood  of  men ; 
Thus  would  it  not  fulfil 
Its  being's  aim  and  end. 
Its  life  hath  passed  in  peace, 
Far  from  the  battle  strife, 
Pursuing  works  of  love. 
Thou  dear  domestic  knife  ! 

Full  thirty  years  have  passed 
Since  first  thy  life  begun, 
And  varied  and  toilsome 
The  race  that  thou  hast  run. 
Thou  hast  been  with  my  mother 
From  her  first  wedded  life  ; 
Thou  ought'st  to  be  respected, 
Thou  venerated  knife. 

How  many  tons  of  bread 

And  hundred-weights  of  meat 

Hast  thou  helped  to  prepare 

For  hungry  ones  to  eat. 

Oh  !  could  poor  Ireland's  son. 

Who  asked  in  tones  forlorn, 

"  Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother, 

Only  three  grains  of  corn  "  — 

Could  he  have  had  access 
To  thy  profuse  supply. 


THAT   OLD  KNIFE  29 

He  had  not  of  starvation 
Thus  laid  him  down  —  to  die. 
He  might  have  lived,  mayhap, 
A  long  and  happy  life ; 
As  long,  perchance,  as  thou. 
0  antiquated  knife. 

What  strange  events  have  passed 
Those  thirty  years  within, 
Through  all  thou  to  my  mother 
A  faithful  friend  hast  been. 
Thou  hast  seen  her  little  children 
In  their  gambols,  sports,  and  plays, 
And  thou  hast  e'er  attended  them 
Through  childhood's  golden  days. 

We  were  a  happy  band, 

A  happy  band  of  seven. 

We  all  are  living  now. 

But  one  has  gone  to  heaven. 

She  was  a  fair-haired  child. 

Too  pure  on  earth  to  roam, 

Too  frail  to  brave  its  chilling  blasts. 

So  Jesus  took  her  home. 

And  thou  hast  seen  the  rest 
Pass  one  by  one  away, 
Till  in  their  childhood's  home 
But  one  alone  doth  stay. 


30  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

All  but  that  one  have  reached 
Maturer  years  of  age, 
And  gone  to  act  their  part 
Upon  the  world's  wide  stage. 

I,  /  alone  remain, 
The  youngest  of  the  seven  ; 
Last  of  the  little  band 
Unto  our  parents  given. 
Full  fifteen  years  have  left 
Their  impress  on  my  brow, 
Yet  as  I  loved  thee  formerly 
I  love  thee  better  now. 

Thou  art  the  last  of  twelve 
That  thirty  years  ago 
Were  bright  and  new  as  any 
That  modern  cutlers  show. 
But  time  has  hied  him  on, 
And  robbed  thee  of  thy  gloss ; 
Thy  steel  hath  lost  its  polish, 
And  thy  blade  its  edge  hath  lost. 

Soon,  soon  wilt  thou  be  numbered 
Among  the  things  that  were,  * 
But  never  shall  thy  memory 
Within  the  breast  of  her 

*  "  Thut  Old  Knife  "  remains  among  the  things  that  are,  with  the  original 
copy  of  this  poem,  in  her  library.    Ed.,  1902. 


.^0»^»*ttm.^ 


A   DREAM  31 


Who,  gazing  on  the  Past, 
Hath  penned  for  thee  these  lays. 
Sink  into  dark  Oblivion, 
Relic  of  former  days. 

And  should,  in  after  years. 
Cares  cluster  round  her  brow. 
May  she  then  learn  to  bear 
As  patiently  as  thou. 
And,  oh !  may  she  fulfil 
Her  end  and  aim  in  life 
As  well  as  thou  hast  done. 
Thou  wise  and  worthy  knife. 


A  DREAM 
[To  H.  A.  D.] 

HAD  a  dream,  but  was  it  all  a  dream  ? 

Howe'er,  I'll  tell  it,  as  you  always  seem 

To  court  my  confidence  ;  so  now  give  heed, 

And  my  uncommon  dream  you  soon  shall  read. 

The  real  from  the  dream  you  may  divide. 

And  ponder  on  the  truth,  but  set  the  dream  aside. 

I  ate  mince-pie  last  night,  perhaps  the  cause 
May  there  be  found  —  transgressing  nature's  laws; 
But  let  mince-pie  no  more  be  touched  by  me. 
If  after  it  such  sights  I'm  doomed  to  see. 


32  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Methought  I  had  a  little  purse 

All  trimmed  with  tassels,  none  the  worse 

For  wear ;  the  clasp  had  not  yet  lost 

Its  polish,  nor  the  silk  its  gloss. 

Methought  I  had  some  money, 

Not  much,  I  confess. 

But  though  'twas  very  little, 

It  might  have  been  much  less, 

And  so,  of  course,  I  valued  it. 

As  you  will  easy  guess. 

Methought,  then,  in  my  dreams  I  put 
My  money  and  my  purse  together, 
And  glad  was  I  that  so  I  did. 
For  well  did  each  one  fit  the  other. 

As  still  I  dreamed, 

To  me  it  seemed, 

For  reasons  known 

To  me  alone, 

I  wished  that  you 

Nor  none  might  view 

My  little  "  root 

Of  evil "  put 

Within  my  purse,  nor  have  it  told 

Just  my  exact  amount  of  gold. 

I  did  not  think  that  it  must  be. 

For  safety,  put  'neath  lock  and  key. 


A   DREAM  33 

Mother,  I  thought,  was  surely  trusty,    ' 
And  so,  indeed,  must  be  Augusta ; 
And,  fondly  putting  confidence 
In  your  own  honor  and  good  sense, 
I  laid  the  purse  "  d'argent  et  d'or  " 
In  Mother's  secretary  drawer. 

Now,  still  as  on  and  on  I  dreamed. 
My  mind  assumed  a  different  tone, 
A  strange,  harsh  sound  fell  on  my  ear, 
"  Money,  Paul,  money,"  did  I  hear. 

Then  in  my  sleep  I  turned  my  face, 

Methought,  unto  the  very  place 

From  whence  the  ugly  sound  proceeded. 

Gracchi !  but  one  short  glance  was  needed, 

For  what  sight  met  my  wondering  view  ! 

Why  !  there  before  the  drawer  stood  you. 

My  little  purse  was  in  your  grasp, 

Your  fingers  had  unloosed  the  clasp. 

Each  shining  piece  that  through  it  passed 

You  counted  —  then  a  laugh  I  heard. 

Low  but  contemptuous,  and  it  stirred 

The  evil  passions  in  my  heart ; 

I  bid  them,  but  they'd  not  depart. 

But  I  controlled  them  all  and  uttered  not  a  word. 

My  feelings  then  were  as  acute 
As  though  I  were  awake. 


34  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

How  glad  I  am  that  'twas  not  so, 
Though  only  for  yoiy  sake. 

You  whom  I  had  believed  upright, 
Whose  every  word  I'd  thought  was  right, 
Now  stood  direct  before  my  face, 
Clad  in  the  robes  of  deep  disgrace. 

A  different  kind  of  sound 

I  soon  began  to  hear 

A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

A  voice  was  in  my  ear ; 

I  heard  my  father  say, 

"  Here,  mend  my  mittens,  dear." 

I  started  up,  a  ray  of  hope  'gan  through  my  soul  to 

gleam  ; 
Judge,  if  you  can,  of  my   relief  to  find  it  all  a 

dream. 

Abby. 
Nov.  9,  1848. 


TO   MY   BROTHER  35 

TO  MY  BROTHER 

WHO    JESTINGLY    SAID,    "  WRITE    ME    A    PIECE 
ABOUT    THE    HAND  " 

TO  no  soul-inspiring  strains 
Tune  I  now  my  lyre. 
No  enthusiastic  theme 
Calls  forth  poetic  fire. 
The  subject  I  have  taken 
A  poet  seldom  chooses, 
Yet  not  all  despairingly 
I  now  convoke  the  Muses. 
I  breathe  no  tale  of  Fiction  —  no  scene  from  Fairy 

Land, 
Yet  not  devoid  of  interest  is  the  busy  human  Hand. 

Its  little  nerves,  how  finely  strung,  how  delicate  they 

are, 
And  yet,  not  sensitive  enough  our  happiness  to  mar ; 
Think  —  had  they  been  less  exquisite  much  pleasure 

had  been  lost. 
And  many  useful  little   deeds  much   trouble  would 

have  cost ; 
And  had  they  been  more  exquisite,  what  anguish  we 

should  find 
In  many  substances  we  touch,  which  now  we  do  not 

mind. 


36  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

And  who  would  think,  when  gazing  on  an  infant's 
little  hand, 

That  'neath  its  covering  were  streams  true  as  e'er 
flowed  on  land. 

So  countless  are  the  rivulets  that  from  the  heart  are 
sent, 

The  slightest  cambric  needle  wound  will  give  the  life- 
wave  vent. 

And  upward  through  the  tiny  breach  the  pure  drop 
wends  its  way, 

Till  on  the  surface  fair  it  stands,  and  blushes  at  the 
day. 

Oh !  how  many  are  these  little  rills,  and  yet,  such  is 
their  size. 

That  most  of  them  are  not  discerned  by  the  most 
piercing  eyes. 

In  ceaseless  silence,  on  —  on  —  on  —  the  warm  life- 
current  flows. 

Invigorating,  strengthening,  refreshing  as  it  goes. 

How  well  adapted  to  our  use  is  each  and  every  part. 
Each  prompting  ready  to  obey  of  soul  and  mind  and 

heart ; 
Propelled  by  mighty  intellects  with  power  and  wisdom 

fraught. 
What   wonders    in   our    little    world   its    agency  has 

wrought. 


TO   MY   BROTHER  37 

Cast  now  thine  eye  through  centuries  that  long,  long 

since  have  fled, 
Through  lapse  of  ages  that  have  passed  o'er  earth's 

unnumbered  dead, 
Down  the  dim  vista  of  the  Past,  in  bold  relief  still 

stand 
Countless  mementoes  of  the  skill  of  this  all-wondrous 

Hand. 

Egyptian  pyramids,  what  vast  extent 

And  durability  are  therein  blent, 

Of  height  stupendous,  and  amazing  base. 

They  stand  in  sullen  grandeur  on  the  face 

Of  the  green  earth  —  laugh  at  each  paltry  cause 

That  ruins  nations  and  overthrows  their  laws ; 

Mock  at  the  ruins  of  a  prostrate  world, 

Nor   heed   the   darts   that   time   has  at  them 

hurled ; 
Outline  the  glory  of  their  mother  state, 
And  scorn  the  power  of  the  "  vulgar  great," 
Whence    sprang   this   massive  wonder   of    all 

lands  — 
From    hosts     of     wondrous,     wonder-working 

Hands. 

Lo !  on  the  plains  of  Rephidim  the   battle  banners 

wave. 
Thousands  of  men  assemble  there  to  find  —  a  nameless 

grave. 


38  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

The  sons  of  Amalek  are  there,  a  brave  and  prosperous 

race, 
And  Israel's  children,  too,  are   there,   of    slow   and 

feeble  pace ; 
Weakened   by   bondage,    and    fatigued   with    march 

severe  and  long. 
How   dare  they  cope   with  Amalek,  the  brave,  the 

proud,  the  strong  ? 
Ah !    One  was  there  who  oft  had  said,   "  I  am  thy 

sure  Defence," 
And  He  had  bid  them  there  to  stand,  and  who  should 

drive  them  thence  ? 
And   now   that   chosen   few   stand   forth,    strong  in 

Jehovah's  might. 
Nor  quail  before  those  hostile  bands,  nor  tremble  at 

the  sight; 
With  faith  unwavering,  hope  as  strong,  and  confidence 

in  God, 
They  upward  turn  their  wistful  eyes  toward  Heaven, 

his  high  Abode. 
All   patiently  they  wait  the  sign  from  his   Eternal 

Throne, 
By  which  to  conquer  and  to  feel  that  they  are  not  alone. 
And  now  an  impulse  strikes  each  breast,  and  all  turn 

as  one  man 
To  where,  upon  a  small  hill-top,  their  two  deliverers 

stand. 
This  is  the  si(/n  that  God  has  given,  while  Moses  lifts 

his  Hands. 


TO  MT  BROTHER  39 

Then  Israel's  children  shall  prevail  against  the  hostile 

bands ; 
But  if  through  weakness  or  through  fear  his  Hands 

should  droop  and  fall, 
The  sons  of  Amalek  shall  be  the  conquerors  of  all. 

Now  hear  the  clash  of  war-like  arms,  the  rush  of  many 

feet, 
As  the  two  battling  armies  in  fierce  contention  meet. 
Now  Israel's  children  turn  their  eyes  to  where  their 

Moses  stands, 
And  hope  springs  up  afresh,  for  Hur  and  Aaron  stay 

his  Hands. 
And  now  the  bright  and  glorious  sun  is  sinking  in  the 

west. 
And  the  fatigued  belligerents  are  glad  to  stop  and  rest.  , 
Who  come  off  conquerors  in  the  strife,  the  many  or  the 

few? 
The  latter  —  God  had  promised  them,  and  he  to  them 

was  true. 
Invincibly,  courageously,  effectually  they  fought, 
"  They  paled  not,  they  quailed  not,"  for  Moses'  Hands 

drooped  not. 

But  we  will  dwell  no  longer  on  Time's  past,  distant 

page. 
For  in  the  nineteenth  century  —  e'en  in  the  pi'esent 

age  — 


40  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

I  think  we'll  find  a  useful  thing  has  been  this  little 

Hand, 
To  ever  busy,  ever  eager,  ever  restless  man. 

Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Onward  they  go ; 
Merrily,  merrily, 
High  and  the  low  ; 
New  England's  famed  city 
Is  teeming  with  life, 
Her  streets  and  her  Common 
With  interest  rife. 
The  warm  sun  is  flinging 
His  brightest  beams  down. 
And  happy  the  faces 
Now  blooming  around. 
And  happy  the  cause 
That  assembled  them  there, 
Those  faces  so  manly, 
And  faces  so  fair. 
To  one  common  focus 
Swells  the  eager  life-tide, 
The  oasis  of  Boston, 
Her  joy  and  her  pride. 
But  the  rude  hand  of  man 
Its  quiet  has  broke. 
Disturbed  its  fair  waters 
With  merciless  stroke. 


TO   MY  BEOTHER  41 

Full  five  and  twenty  years  ago 

A  citizen  alone 
Sat,  and  his  meditations  took 

A  melancholy  tone  — 
For  water,  water,  was  the  cry 

That  ever  met  his  ear, 
Disease  and  danger  stalked  abroad 

For  want  of  water  clear. 
The  liquid  that  men  drank. 

It  could  not  honored  be 
With  the  name  of  that  which  ever 

To  all  men  should  be  free  — 
Water,  that  richest  blessing, 

That  boon  of  priceless  worth. 
Given  unto  the  dwellers 

In  this,  our  fallen  earth. 
He  thought  of  many  a  scheme 

By  which  relief  to  bring. 
And  Hope  around  his  soul 

A  syren  song  did  sing. 
On  that  autumnal  morn. 

That  bright  October  day, 
The  citizen  of  whom  we  spoke 

Was  gayest  of  the  gay. 

For  the  scheme  that  he  invented,  so  many  bygone 

years. 
Had  reached  its  full  fruition,  and  all  his  hopes  and 

fears 


42  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Were  scattered  like  the  mists  before  the  rising  sun, 
And  all  the  city  blessed  him  for  the  good  that  he  had 
done. 

Immense  were  the  endeavors  that  Boston's  sons  had 

made, 
Large  basins  had  been  formed  and  channels  had  been 

laid; 
A  fountain  was  to  play  upon  the  Common  fair, 
And  rivers,  lakes,  and  channels,  all  terminated  there. 

And  now  the  time  was  come,  the  people  gathered 
round. 

And  the  breezes  bore  away  a  low  and  whispering  sound. 

And  now  a  powerful  voice  was  heard  above  the  hum- 
ming din, 

"  Citizens,  if  it  be  your  mind  the  water  to  let  in, 

Please  to  say  Ay ! "  and  then  arose  as  it  would  rend 
the  sky. 

From  that  immense  assembled  throng,  one  long  tre- 
mendous "  Ay." 

Slowly  at  first,  then  faster,  rushed  the  water,  bold  and 
free, 

And  from  that  soul-inspired  crowd  there  went  up 
"three  times  three." 

What  caused  the  fountain  there  to  play  so  sweetly  in 
its  pride, 

And  from  Cochituate's  bosom  sent  the  welcome  crystal 
tide? 


TO   MY  BROTHER  43 

Not  the  lone  citizen  who  sat  with  brow  perplexed  with 

thought, 
He  did  not  wish  to  do  the  work,  it  was  the  plan  he 
sought. 

He  might  have  sat  there  in  his  room 

And  pondered  until  now, 
But  to  his  cogitations 

The  rivers  would  not  bow. 
What  moved  from  their  quiescent  state 
The  waters  of  Cochituate, 
And  sent  its  glad,  refreshing  streams  throughout  the 

thirsty  land  ? 
The  skill  of  many  a  wondrous  and  wonder-working 
Hand. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  guides  us, 
Life's  tangled  mazes  through ; 
Oh,  may  that  Hand  be  ever 

A  potent  guide  to  you. 
And  when  in  peace  and  plenty, 

All  happily  you  stand, 
Forget  not  that  these  favors 
Come  from  a  Father's  Hand. 

Jan.  13,  1849. 


44  CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 


V 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   GOUT 

ITH  fingers  extended  and  stiff, 
With  head  all  aching  and  hot, 
An  old  man  sat  in  a  cushioned  chair 
Supporting  his  weary  foot. 
Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
With  remedies  and  without, 
And  his  voice  a  dolorous  pitch  did  take, 
As  he  sang  the  song  of  the  gout. 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache. 
In  the  silent  noon  of  night ; 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache. 
In  the  bright  sun's  pleasing  light. 
And  it's  oh !  to  be  a  savage 
Along  with  the  Indian  nation, 
Where  gout  has  never  dared  to  come, 
If  this  is  civilization. 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
Till  the  eyelids  are  heavy  and  dim. 

Pills  and  aloes  and  salts, 

Salts  and  aloes  and  pills. 
Till  over  sal-nitre  I  fall  asleep, 

To  dream  of  medicinal  rills. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   GOUT  45 

0  doctor,  with  balsam  rare ! 

0  surgeon,  with  lancet  and  knife ! 
It  is  not  lancet  or  balsam  I  want, 

1  ask  but  for  health  and  life. 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
Longing  and  wishing  for  health. 
Groaning  away,  with  a  treble  groan. 
My  happiness,  time,  and  wealth. 


But  why  do  I  talk  of  health. 
That  phantom  of  florid  hue  ? 
I  cannot  grasp  his  lovely  form. 
Though  'tis  ever  before  my  view, 
When  awake  and  when  asleep. 
Alas  !  that  health  should  be  so  dear. 
And  gout  and  dyspepsia  so  cheap. 
Ache  —  ache  —  ache. 


Ache  —  ache  —  ache 
From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 

Ache  ■ —  ache  —  ache, 
As  the  schoolboy  aches  for  crime. 

Pills  and  aloes  and  salts, 

Senna  and  rhubarb  root, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  foot. 


46  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
In  the  dull  December  night ; 

Ache  —  ache  —  ache, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright; 

While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  fly, 

As  if  to  show  how  healthy  they, 
And  happier  far,  than  I. 


Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  SAveet, 
To  see  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet. 
Oh  !  for  but  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  gout. 
With  which  I  now  must  deal. 


Oh  !  for  but  one  short  hour 

However  quick  it  flies, 

No  blessed  leisure  for  happiness, 

But  only  time  for  sighs. 

A  little  walking  would  strengthen  me. 

But  here  I  must  remain 
Through  the  long  dreary  winter  months, 

Till  summer  comes  again. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   MY   BROTHER'S   ALBUM     47 

With  fingers  extended  and  stiff, 
With  head  all  aching  and  hot, 
An  old  man  sat  in  his  cushioned  chair, 
Supporting  his  weaxy  foot. 
Ache  —  ache  —  ache. 
With  remedies  and  without, 
And  his  voice  a  dolorous  song  did  make  — 
Oh  !  that  the  rich  would  a  warning  take 
From  this  same  song  of  the  gout. 

June  16,  1849. 

LINES 

WRITTEN    IN    MY    BROTHER'S    ALBUM 


Y 


OU  ask  that  I  should  write,  brother. 

Oh !  say,  what  shall  it  be  ? 

Shall  I  not  twine  a  chaplet 

From  by-gone  days  for  thee  ? 

I  know  thy  heart  still  clings,  brother, 

Unto  thy  childhood's  home, 

The  consecrated  places 

Where  once  thou  loved'st  to  roam. 

I  mind  me  of  the  time,  brother, 

Within  the  darksome  wood, 

Or  when  we  crossed  the  meadows 

And  culled  the  sweet  wild  flowers. 

All  thoughtlessly  beguiling 

The  happy,  swift-winged  hours. 


48  CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

Remember  you  the  orchard, 

Where  grew  the  loaded  trees, 

Whose  heavy-laden  branches 

Bowed  gently  to  the  breeze  ? 

And  do  you  not  remember 

The  green  and  wooded  way 

That  led  us  where  so  quietly, 

A  sparkling  springlet  lay  ? 

And  where  its  little  rivulets, 

By  willow-trees  o'erhung, 

Leaped  gladly  o'er  the  shaded  grass, 

The  mossy  rocks  among  ? 

Oh  !  happy  were  those  days,  brother. 

Though  shadows  came  and  went. 

And  o'er  some  childish  moments 

A  flickering  darkness  sent. 

The  old  haunts  echo  now,  brother, 

No  more  to  merry  feet 

And  the  faces  are  not  there,  brother. 

That  once  I  loved  to  greet ; 

The  green  trees  wave  their  branches 

As  erst  they  used  to  wave. 

And  the  bright  streams  lave  the  rocks,  brother, 

As  erst  they  used  to  lave. 

But  the  "  Life  of  life  "  hath  fled,  brother, 

From  all  those  sunny  nooks, 

And  changes  there  have  come,  brother, 

Affection  hardly  brooks. 

For  stranger  feet  now  tread,  brother. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   MY    BROTHER'S   ALBUM    49 

Each  well-remembered  place, 

And  on  those  ever  hallowed  scenes 

Have  left  their  heartless  trace. 

But  still  within  the  soul,  brother, 

Is  painted  every  spot 

In  such  true,  life-like  hues,  brother, 

They'll  never  be  forget. 

The  beauty  of  our  childhood's  home 

Will  shortly  pass  away ; 

The  lines  deep  graven  in  the  soul 

Will  never  more  decay. 

Thus  are  we  passing  on,  brother, 

We're  passing  quick  away, 

But  there's  a  life  within,  brother, 

That  never  shall  decay. 

The  soul's  life  is  a  mystic  one, 

"  'Tis  strange,  'tis  passing  strange," 

And  wondrous,  high  and  holy 

Is  its  aspiring  range. 

Still,  the  soul  is  bound  on  earth,  brother^ 

By  its  unwieldy  load, 

But  it  will  don  celestial  robes. 

Before  the  Throne  of  God. 

And  when  the  soul  is  freed,  brother, 

From  its  material  state. 

And  doffed  with  joyful  gladness 

Its  cumbrous  earthly  weight. 

There  will  appear  to  us,  brother, 

In  clear  and  sparkling  light. 


50  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Our  spiritual  life  on  earth. 

How  wonderful  the  sight ! 

And  when  your  soul  thus  stands,  brother, 

In  its  own  veil-less  view, 

Oh !  may  no  unrepented  sin 

Come  betwixt  God  and  you. 

And  though  each  thought  be  seen,  brother. 

May  nought  impure  be  found  ; 

But  may  you,  washed  in  Jesus'  blood. 

List  to  the  welcome  sound. 

That  from  the  Highest  ever  comes 

To  all  who  do  His  word  — 

"  Well  done,  now  enter,  faithful  one. 

The  presence  of  thy  Lord." 

And  may  you,  ever  freed,  brother, 

From  all  impure  alloy. 

Spend  an  eternity  of  bliss 

In  ever  flowing  joy. 

And  may  your  spirit  rove,  brother, 

O'er  Heaven's  celestial  shore. 

With  Christ  and  sinless  beings 

To  dwell  forevermore. 


T 


A  REQUIEM  FOR  THE  DEPARTED      51 


A  REQUIEM  FOR  THE  DEPARTED 

EAR  it  down,  tear  it  down,  with  a  mighty  stroke, 

Let  the  Dutch  house  disappear ; 

It  has  stood  upright  with  its  beams  of  oak, 

And  its  firm  built  walls,  now  dim  with  smoke, 

For  many  a  bygone  year. 

Of  timber  strong  was  the  old  house  made, 

On  a  rock  foundation  its  base  was  laid ; 

But  a  cycle's  storms  have  beat  o'er  its  head, 

And  now  its  glory  and  pride  have  fled. 

It  stands,  oh,  it  stands  on  a  beautiful  site/ 

A  river  flows  gently  by. 

With  its  waves  of  crystal  and  silver  bright, 

Crested  with  diamonds  and  pearls  of  light, 

And  pure  as  the  cloudless  sky. 

Grassy  and  green  is  the  flowery  shore, 

Broad  are  the  tree-tops  that  wave  evermore. 

Dense  is  the  cool  shade  and  sweet  is  the  song 

Of   the  gay  plumaged  birds  the  green  branches 


It  may  be,  it  may  be  that  long  years  ago, 
Before  the  old  house  was  there, 
When  gentle  as  now  was  the  river's  flow. 
The  music  of  nature  as  soothing  and  low, 
And  the  banks  as  green  and  fair  — 

1  In  Ipswich,  Mass. 


62  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Perhaps  at  the  close  of  the  summer's  day, 
The  voices  of  children  were  heard  in  play, 
While  the  parents,  reposing  from  labor  and  care, 
Sought  the  coolness  and  quietude  always  there. 

But  years  upon  years  have  passed  away, 

And  father  and  son  have  gone  — 

And  they  who  lived  in  that  distant  day. 

Have,  one  by  one,  trod  the  same  dark  way, 

And  now  is  left  not  one. 

And  the  house,  the  house  where  long  they  dwelt, 

The  finger  of  time  it  has  sadly  felt ; 

It  is  black  with  age  ;  it  is  viewed  with  gloom, 

And  a  dwelling  for  ghosts  seems  each  lonely  room. 

Tear  it  down,  tear  it  down  with  a  mighty  stroke, 

Let  the  Dutch  house  disappear  ; 

It  has  stood  upright  with  its  beams  of  oak. 

And  its  firm  built  walls,  now  dim  with  smoke. 

For  many  a  bygone  year. 

But  the  time  has  come  for  it  to  die. 

Its  dissolution  draweth  nigh. 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  the  house  of  yore. 

We  shall  see  the  Dutch  house  nevermore. 


G 


THE   LAST   INDIAN  63 

THE   LAST   INDIAN 

N"  Monoiska's  rocky  banks, 
Osconeoma  stood ; 

Upon  its  dark  blue  marsh  he  gazed, 
In  melancholy  mood. 

The  twilight  long  had  passed  away, 
The  moon  was  shining  bright, 
But  to  the  Indian's  lonely  heart 
It  brought  no  silvery  light. 

He  heard  the  autumn's  whistling  winds, 
The  waves'  low,  sullen  roll, 
And  darker,  deeper  gloom  o'erspread 
Osconeoma' s  soul. 

Remembered  he  the  former  days. 
Before  the  white  man  came 
To  grasp  the  Indian's  hunting  ground  — 
Destroy  the  Indian's  name. 

Remembered  he  the  former  days. 
When  proud,  and  brave,  and  free. 
His  father  tribe  was  six-score  souls, 
A  noble  band  to  see. 

Remembered  he  their  mighty  deeds. 
Their  power  could  none  withstand  ; 
Fearless,  unconquered,  long  they  reigned, 
The  masters  of  the  land. 


54  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

But  then  there  dawned  an  evil  day ; 
They  saw  the  paleface  come, 
And  on  their  coasts  a  harbor  find, 
And  on  their  soil  a  home. 

And  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year 
The  strangers'  might  increased, 
And  feebler  wa'xed  the  Indian's  strength, 
Till  now,  his  rule  had  ceased. 

Long,  long  Osconeoma  stood. 
And  deep  and  fearful  gloom 
Came  o'er  his  soul,  as  thus  he  mused 
Upon  the  Indian's  doom. 

Beneath  the  forest  shade  reposed 
The  ashes  of  his  race  ; 
And  there  his  own,  he  long  had  hoped, 
Would  find  a  resting  place. 

"  Why  tarries  the  Great  Spirit  thus  ?  " 

The  Indian  sighed  alone  ; 

"  Why  sends  he  not  for  me  to  go 

Where  all  the  brave  have  gone  ? 

"  Truly,  the  Father  hath  forgot. 

So  shall  I  never  see 

The  wild  chase  and  the  hunting  ground 

He  hath  prepared  for  me. 


THE  LAST  INDIAN  5$ 

"  Yet  ■will  I  go,  I  know  I  may, 

To  reach  that  distant  spot  — 

The  rolling  waves  are  black  and  cold, 

The  Indian  fears  them  not." 

Unearthly  fire  is  in  his  eye, 
His  youthful  strength  returns. 
And  now  his  wildly  throbbing  breast 
With  strange  excitement  burns. 

'*  Souls  of  my  Fathers  ! "  loud  he  cries, 
"  I  come  to  join  your  songs  ; 
Revenge,  Great  Spirit,  oh,  revenge 
Osconeoma's  wrongs  ! " 

One  fearful  plunge,  one  wild  death-shriek 
The  echoing  rocks  resound  ; 
And  he  has  vanished  —  all  is  still  — 
Dread  silence  reigns  around. 

Fair  Monoiska's  gentle  waves 

Uptoss  the  tiny  surge, 

And,  with  the  low  rocks,  murmuring  make 

Osconeoma's  dirge. 

Mary  Abbt  Dodoe. 
Ipswich  Female  Seminary,  Oct.  6,  1849. 


56  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

TO  JOSE   BARDOTTEE 

WRITTEN    FOB    

FULL  many  a  moon  has  waxed  and  waned ; 
Full  many  a  spring  has  flown  ; 
Full  many  an  Autumn's  "  yellow  leaf  " 
And  sighing  wind  have  gone ; 
Full  many  a  year  has  passed  away, 
With  light  and  shadow  fraught, 
Since  last  I  gazed  upon  thy  face, 
My  beautiful  Bardottee. 

How  strangely,  wildly  throbs  my  heart ; 

How  thrillingly  arise 

Visions  of  bygone  youthful  scenes, 

Before  my  tearful  eyes. 

Ah !  visions  of  those  early  days. 

Which  will  not  be  forgot, 

Thy  name,  upon  my  lips,  recalls 

Thy  name,  my  own  Bardottee. 

I  stand  again  amid  the  Past ; 
I  see  my  own  loved  home ; 
I  see  upon  the  rock -based  hill 
The  old  church's  lofty  dome  ; 
I  see  the  quiet  shady  walks, 
Each  dear  familiar  spot 


TO  JOSE  BARDOTTEE  57 

Where  I  was  wont  to  rove  with  thee, 
My  raven-haired  Bardottee. 

Then !  then  the  spring  to  me  was  fair, 

The  summer  days  looked  bright, 

I  gazed  on  Autumn's  loveliness, 

Nor  saddened  at  the  sight. 

I  feared  not  Winter's  wreathing  snow 

His  blasts  could  harm  me  not, 

'Twas  light  and  love  if  thou  wert  there. 

My  sunny-eyed  Bardottee. 

A  change  has  come.     The  dreams  of  youth 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Bright  hopes  and  high  imaginings, 

They  cheered  me  but  a  day. 

But  life  —  life  real,  stern,  and  cold, 

Hath  ever  vainly  sought 

To  tear  thy  image  from  my  heart, 

My  noble-browed  Bardottee. 

On  fair  Italia's  vineclad  realms 
Thy  feet  were  wont  to  roam. 
Beneath  her  gorgeous,  glorious  skies 
Was  placed  thy  sunlit  home. 
The  beauties  of  that  classic  shore, 
On  which  was  cast  thy  lot. 
Were  wreathen  with  thy  very  life. 
My  gentle-souled  Bardottee. 


58  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Farewell !  I  may  not  longer  gaze 

Upon  the  pictured  Past. 

Too  thrilling,  powerful  the  glance 

Thus  casually  cast. 

In  vain  !  in  vain  !  it  cannot  be  — 

Thou  art  not  quite  forgot ; 

Thy  memory  must  aye  remain, 

My  loved,  long-lost  Bardottee. 


TO   AN   ANCIENT   SHOE 

»^ADED  relic  of  the  Past, 
Formed  iipon  a  British  "  last," 
Can  I  not,  by  hook  or  crook. 
For  my  "  composition  book," 
Write  a  page  or  two  from  you, 
Antiquated  silken  Shoe  ? 

Ah !  I  think  that  I  can  trace 

In  thy  quiet  aged  face, 

Half  a  look  of  grave  assent,  — 

So  my  Muse  may  now  give  vent, 

And  may  see  what  she  can  do 

With  a  high-heeled,  green  silk  Shoe. 

Let  me  think ;  how  many  years, 
Fraught  with  hopes  and  joys  and  fears. 
Have  there  been  upon  the  earth 
Since  the  day  that  gave  you  birth  ? 


TO   AN  ANCIENT   SHOE  69 

Say,  has  not  our  little  world 
Five-score  times  its  sails  iinfurled 
For  a  voyage  round  the  sun, 
Since  your  life  was  first  begun  ? 

Well,  then,  quite  a  little  age 

You  have  been  upon  the  stage, 

And  you  ought  to  have  a  weight 

Of  knowledge,  both  of  small  and  great. 

Had  I  been  where  you  have  been, 

Had  T  seen  what  you  have  seen, 

I  should  know  a  vast  deal  more 

Of  the  times  and  days  of  yore 

Than  you  now  appear  to  do, 

Most  un-literary  Shoe. 

Long,  to  us,  your  life  may  seem  ; 
After  all  'tis  but  "  a  dream." 
Hear  what  good  old  Jacob  says  : 
"  Few  and  short  have  been  my  days." 
Yet  he  lived  more  years  than  you. 
Little  V  toed,  silken  Shoe. 

You  have  been  where  I  have  not. 
And  have  seen  —  I  don't  know  what. 
With  aristocratic  dames, 
At  the  court  of  good  St.  James, 
You  have  tripped,  nor  loth,  nor  slow, 
On  "  the  light,  fantastic  toe." 


60  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Though  I  rather  think  you'd  be 
Too  fantastic,  quite,  for  me. 
Borne  upon  your  lofty  heel, 
Like,  I  fear  that  I  should  feel, 
Pisa's  famous  leaning  tower, 
Which,  I  fancy,  every  hour 
Fears  lest  some  untimely  breeze. 
Sighing  through  the  trembling  leaves, 
Should  its  posture,  nice,  o'erthrow. 
And  should  lay  its  proud  head  low. 

Well,  old  Shoe,  your  glory's  gone, 

And  your  work  has  long  been  done. 

Now,  pray  tell  me  where'd  you  get 

Any  right  to  be  here  yet  ? 

Long  ago  you  should  have  died. 

With  your  partner  by  your  side. 

\Vhat  can  anybody  do 

With  a  clumsy  thing  like  you  ? 

Would  a  single  soul  in  town 

Wear  you  ?  No.   You'd  throw  them  down. 

Then  don't  look  so  prim  and  nice, 

I  really  think  you  need  a  slice 

Of  what  my  aunt  calls  "  humble  pie." 

At  all  events,  you'd  better  try 

Cast  the  proud  hope  from  your  soul, 

That,  although  you're  very  old. 

Anybody  cares  for  you, 

Superannuated  Shoe. 


A  PAEODY  61 

Do  you  think  me  too  severe  ? 
Well,  perhaps  I  am,  my  dear, 
But  my  reverence  has  gone 
On  a  journey  to  the  moon, 
Or  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where 
It  can  be  found  if  'tisn't  there. 
It's  been  "  vamosed  "  all  the  time 
Since  I  first  commenced  this  rhyme, 
And  that  is  the  reason  why 
Such  an  unrelenting  cry 
'Gainst  you  I've  made.     But  now  forgive. 
You  henceforth  in  peace  may  live. 
So  farewell,  farewell  to  you, 
Poor  old  silver  buckled  Shoe. 
Dec.  25,  1849. 


A   PARODY 

LINES    SUGGESTED    BY    THE    APPEARANCE    OP    A    MOUSE 
IN    FRONT    OF    MB.    COWLES'    DESK 


G 


NE  more  new  claimant  for 
Ipswich  instruction, 
Swelling  the  crowds  that  have 
Sought  introduction. 
I,  as  I  see  the  guest, 
Tremble  to  look  at  him, 
And  I  am  tempted  to 
Throw  my  French  book  at  him. 


62  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Room  for  him  somewhere 
Out  of  the  house  ; 
I  am  afraid  of  the 
Shade  of  a  mouse  ! 
Frighten  the  stranger 
With  broomstick  away, 
Valiantly,  speedily, 
Do  not  delay. 

See  in  his  fearfulness 
How  his  eye  glistens,  — 
See  how  his  little  heart 
Throbs  as  he  listens, 
Strange  that  his  mouseship 
Had  no  adviser 

Who  could  have  counselled  him 
To  have  been  wiser  ! 

Could  he  but  have  a  glimpse 

Into  futurity. 

Well  might  he  tremble 

For  his  security. 

Yet  does  it  seem  to  me, 

If  he  "  makes  tracks," 

He  may  escape  from 

Hostile  attacks. 

The  wonder  to  me  is, 
How  did  he  get  there  — 


A  PARODY  63 


IJBder  whose  auspices 
Now  does  lie  sit  there  ? 
Truly  his  ingress  is 
Clouded  in  mystery ; 
I  am  sure  I  cannot 
Guess  at  its  history. 

Something  too  much  of  this 
Cowardly  prating. 
See  now  how  sober  he 
Looks,  meditating. 
Now  he  squeals  lustily  — 
Bravo !  my  hearty  one. 
Lungs  like  an  orator 
Cheering  his  party  on. 

Look  how  his  little  eyes 
Turn  to  us  pleadingly, 
Can  we  help  pitying, 
Pitying  exceedingly  ? 
Partly  with  laughter  and 
Partly  with  fears, 
See !  see  !  he  is  coming ! 
Leap  up  on  the  chairs  ! 

Now  then,  to  hunt  him  out 
Who  is  there  cool  for  it  ? 
Turn  to  Miss  Eobinson, 
Or  to  the  school  for  it  ? 


64  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Sure  'tis  a  branch  of 
Practical  science, 
And  this  yoimg  mouse  sets 
Rules  at  defiance. 

Hark  !  Mrs.  Cowles  bids  us 
Let  him  alone. 
Wait  a  few  moments 
And  he  will  be  gone. 
There  !  he  is  running 
Out  of  the  house, 
So  now,  farewell  to  thee, 
Wandering  mouse. 


A  METRICAL   ROMANCE.    ' 

IN    FIVE    CANTOS. 

Translated  from  the  German  of  Goethe  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

Abridged,  altered,  revised,  corrected,  and  stereotyped  by  Nemo 
Nawahed  (from  the  197th  London  edition). 

Published  in  the  United  States  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

Copy  of  a  letter  from  Alfred  Tennyson,  poet  laureate  presumptive,  to 
the  publishers. 

Messes.  Harper  &  Brothers  : 

Allow  me  to  tender  my  grateful  acknowledgments 
for  the  gem  of  poetry  which  you  have  recently  sent 
me.  No  words  can  describe  the  ecstasy  with  which  I 
perused  that  wonderful  production.     Suffice  it  to  say, 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  66 

that  it  combined  all  the  excellencies  of  Goethe  and 
Longfellow,  without  the  defects  of  either.  There  is 
throughout  a  tone  of  loyalty  —  a  respect  for  monarch- 
ical institutions,  together  with  a  plot  thoroughly  re- 
publican —  which  cannot  fail  to  please.  Especially 
in  these  times  which  "  try "  kings'  "  souls,"  when 
almost  every  throne  in  Europe  is  tottering,  such  a 
poem  cannot  fail  to  have  a  soothing  effect  upon  the 
"  powers  that  be."  At  the  earliest  possible  opportu- 
nity I  shall  lay  it  before  Lord  John  Russell,  who  will 
communicate  it  to  Her  Majesty  and  Prince  Albei-t, 
who  will  probably  instruct  their  American  ambassador, 
Sir  Henry  Lytton  Bulwer,  to  present  due  acknowl- 
edgments  to  the  gifted  author. 

If  I  should  ever  be  poet  laureate  ("  ut  potius  reor,  et 
potius  Di  numine  firment")  be  assured  I  shall  take 
early  measures  to  present  Nemo  Nawahed  to  the 
public. 

With  respect, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

To  Arthur,  youngest  son  of  Her  Britannic  Majesty,  Alexandrina 
Victoria  and  Prince  Albert  of  Coburg,  this  work  is  respectfully 
inscribed. 

Canto  First. 


L 


Introductory  Address  to  his  Lordship. 
ONG  is  the  time,  my  Prince,  ah  !  long 
Since  last  I  sung  my  joyous  song. 
Long  hath  my  harp,  neglected,  lain. 
I  thought  to  touch  its  strings  again 


66  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

No  more,  for  Time's  resistless  hand 

Hath  thrust  me  far  from  "  Fair  Dream  Land." 

The  sunken  cheek  and  silvered  hair 

And  furrowed  brow  stern  witness  bear, 

That  Youth  long  since  from  me  hath  fled, 

And  left  cold  wrinkled  Age  instead. 

Yet,  Mighty  Prince,  when  unto  me 

The  breezes  wafted  o'er  the  Sea 

The  tidings,  that  thine  azure  eyes 

Had  gazed  with  infantine  surprise 

Upon  this  world,  so  strange  and  new 

To  thy  bewildered,  wondering  view  — 

Then  Youth's  life-tide  once  more  returned  — 

Then  my  seared  heart  with  rapture  burned. 

The  frozen  streams  of  "  feeling  fine  " 

Dissolved  by  genial  Love's  sunshine. 

I  felt  that  I  again  was  young  — 

That  Childhood's  scenes  I  stood  among  — 

With  Fervor,  then  I  swept  once  more 

My  palsied  hand  the  lute-strings  o'er. 

Thus,  then,  0  Prince,  I  send  to  thee 
A  greeting  o'er  the  rolling  sea. 
I  sing  not  of  proud  Briton's  fame, 
Her  bright  though  not  unsullied  name, 
I  give  not,  now,  a  passing  glance 
To  Scotia's  hills  of  wild  Romance  — 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  67 

I  sing  not  of  the  crested  knight  — 

Of  honor,  won  in  deadly  fight  — 

Where  heroes  fear  —  not  Death  but  Shame  — 

Of  periled  life  for  haughty  dame. 

I  sing  not  of  the  ancient  lore 

Of  nations,  —  nations  now  no  more, 

Of  ancient  wood  and  mystic  rite. 

Shrouded  in  everlasting  night, 

Where  man  poured  out  his  brother's  blood, 

A  sacrifice,  before  his  God. 

Such  scenes  as  these  would  scarce  be  meet 

In  song  thy  rising  life  to  greet. 

I  may  not  chill  thy  infant  soul 

With  tales  of  thrilling  horror  told, 

Of  superstition's  bloody  sway, 

Of  Battle's  raging  fierce  affray  ; 

Mine  —  mine  shall  be  a  gentler  lay  — 

A  lay  of  love  —  a  lay  of  truth  — 

The  fresh,  young  love  of  happy  youth. 

List  to  the  tale,  I  pray  thee,  now. 

Of  Aaron  Clark  and  Betty  Dow. 

Canto  Second. 
The  Heroine. 
Young  Betty  was  a  lassie  fair. 
With  thin  and  slightly  grayish  hair. 
Her  eyes  were  neither  gray  nor  green, 
But  just  about  half  way  between. 


68  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

And  so  far  back  within  her  head 

They  looked  like  little  balls  of  lead. 

Her  pretty  mouth,  though  rather  wide, 

Touched  not  the  ear  on  either  side, 

But  seemed  as  if  it  fain  would  do  it 

Whene'er  a  laugh  came  ringing  through  it, 

Which  was  not  oft  (to  speak  the  truth  — 

Miss  Betty  was  a  sombre  youth). 

Her  teeth  were  large,  and  square,  and  good, 

To  masticate  the  hardest  food. 

Her  head  was  plump  and  round  and  small. 

With  no  unseemly  bumps  at  all. 

Her  character  was  perfect  made, 

So  no  protuberance  displayed. 

But  all  was  fair,  symmetric,  neat,  — 

Once  Nature  left  her  work  complete. 

Her  bust  was  faultless  to  be  seen 

As  any  Betty's  bust,  I  ween. 

Her  height  was  neither  less  nor  more 

But  just  exactly  three  feet  four. 

Her  gait  was  somewhat  like  the  swan. 

When  solid  land  it  walks  upon. 

What  added  to  her  pretty  face, 

And  gave  her  graceful  form  more  grace. 

Were  the  accomplishments  possessed, 

Which  served  her  more  than  all  the  rest ; 

For  Betty  made  the  best  of  bread. 

And  not  a  cook-book  ever  read. 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  69 

Her  butter  was  so  fresh  and  sweet, 
It  seemed  as  if  'twas  made  to  eat. 
And  Betty,  too,  could  make  a  cheese 
With  all  imaginable  ease  ; 
Could  fry  a  most  delicious  fritter, 
Whene'er  her  mistress  chose  to  let  her. 
Indeed,  she  cooked  a  handsome  dish 
Of  any  kind,  fowl,  flesh,  or  fish. 
Ah  !  Betty  Dow  was  always  sure 
To  suit  the  daintiest  epicure. 

Her  master  liked  her  for  her  skill, 

Her  mistress,  for  her  lack  of  will. 

Whene'er  she  heard  the  children  mutter. 

She  gave  them  sugared  bread  and  butter. 

So  this  Miss  Dow  was  loved  by  all 

Within  the  house  both  great  and  small. 

Although  I  query  if  she  knew 

Whether  the  sea  were  red  or  blue ; 

And  thought  the  sun,  whate'er  they  said, 

Was  not  much  larger  than  her  head; 

And  that  the  stars  were  bits  of  light. 

Hung  up  to  glisten  in  the  night ; 

And  knew,  let  men  think  what  they  please. 

The  moon  was  made  of  fresh,  green  cheese. 


70  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Canto  Third. 
The  Hero. 

Long,  raven  hair,  complexion  dark, 

And  coal-black  eyes  had  Aaron  Clark. 

But,  ah !  in  vain  I  court  the  Muses  — 

My  stubborn  pen  the  task  refuses 

Of  giving  thus  the  inventory 

Of  minor  parts  of  manly  glory. 

When  one  describes  the  female  fair 

One  can  extol  the  wavy  hair, 

The  cherry  lip,  the  rosy  cheek, 

The  mild  blue  eye,  and  spirit  meek  — 

But  of  Creation's  Lord,  absurd 

Are  such  accounts  whenever  heard. 

We  speak  of  moral  worth,  the  soul. 

The  mind,  the  intellectual  whole. 

Therefore,  of  Aaron  Clark  I'll  scan 

The  inner,  not  the  outer  man. 

In  this  dull  world  you  seldom  find 

A  counterpart  of  his  great  mind. 

His  soul  soared  far  beyond  the  skies ; 

He  scorned  the  learning  of  Earth's  wise; 

But  to  himself  he  kept  as  fast 

His  knowledge  as  did  Hudibras 

His  wit.     He  craved  no  useless  store 

Of  scientific  learned  lore, 

That  might  his  genius  freedom  cramp. 

He  wasted  not  the  "  midnight  lamp  " 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  71 

In  poring  over  musty  scrolls 

And  hieroglyphic  parchment  rolls. 

He  joined  not  his  unsullied  name 

With  those  of  candidates  for  fame. 

On  Earth's  poor  praise,  he  aye  looked  down, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  her  weak  renown. 

He  squandered  not  his  precious  time 

With  Irving's  prose  or  Byron's  rhyme ; 

Nor  studied  all  the  days  of  youth, 

To  bring  to  light  some  abstract  truth. 

He'd  sit  a  year,  beneath  a  tree, 

And,  every  hour,  an  apple  see 

Fall  to  the  ground  without  cessation, 

And  never  think  of  gravitation. 

In  mathematics,  well  he  knew 

That  one  and  one  sometimes  make  two. 

Moreover,  he  could  read,  and  had 

Once  gone  to  school,  when  quite  a  lad. 

He  there  began,  with  bashful  fear. 

His  geographical  career. 

He  stayed  from  nine  o'clock  till  noon, 

And  learned  a  page  of  "  Malte  Brun," 

Besides  these  verses,  which,  I  trow, 

He  well  remembers,  even  now. 

"  The  world  is  round,  and,  like  a  ball. 

Seems  swinging  in  the  air. 
The  sky  extends  around  it  all, 

And  stars  are  shining  there. 


72  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Water  and  land  upon  the  face 
Of  this  round  globe  we  see. 

The  land  is  man's  safe  dwelling  place, 
But  ships  sail  on  the  sea." 
At  noon  he  closed  the  hated  book, 
And  gave  the  "  last,  long,  lingering  look  " 
At  pupil,  ferrule,  desk,  and  master. 
And  than  he  came  he  went  much  faster ; 
Leaped  gladly  through  the  open  door. 
And  never  crossed  its  threshold  more. 

Canto  Fourth. 

The  Courtship. 
Descend,  0  Muse !  I  humbly  pray, 
And  guide  me  through  an  unknown  way. 
Thy  aid  I  crave,  inspire  my  song, 
In  soft  accords,  the  notes  prolong. 

'Twas  Sabbath  morn.     Young  Betty  rose. 

Put  on  her  go-to-meeting  clothes, 

Brushed  carefully  her  silvered  hair, 

And  on  her  neck,  so  white  and  fair. 

She  clasped  a  brilliant  yellow  string 

Of  golden  beads,  a  silver  ring, 

A  green,  square  breast-pin,  made  of  glass 

And  purest  kind  of  shining  brass ; 

And  pink  chintz  dress,  with  plaits  and  bows. 

She  wore,  and  well-matched  pink  silk  hose. 

Spotless  and  bright,  her  pink  lawn  bonnet, 


A  METRICAL  ROMANCE  73 

'Twould  blind  your  eyes  to  look  upon  it. 

With  tasteful  hand,  she  spread  o'er  all, 

A  white  lace  veil,  and  pink  crepe  shawl. 

Then,  thus  arrayed,  with  glowing  face. 

And  swelling  heart,  and  stately  pace. 

She  walked  to  church.     She  reached  the  door, 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more 

Before  the  deep-toned  village  bell 

Its  solemn  notes  began  to  swell. 

She  entered  in.     No  one  was  there. 

Silent  and  still  that  house  of  prayer. 

Pausing,  she  stood  and  mused  awhile. 

And  then  proceeded  up  the  aisle. 

She  scarce  was  seated,  when  there  came 

Another,  early  as  the  dame. 

She  turned  her  head  in  pleasant  mood, 

Young  Aaron  Clark  before  her  stood. 

She  blushed  and  smiled  her  sweetest  smile, 

Poor  Aaron  stood  entranced  the  while. 

Thrice  he,  in  vain,  essayed  to  speak. 

Quick,  burning  blood  flushed  brow  and  cheek. 

Eeluctantly  he  turned  away  — 

In  sorrow  spent  the  livelong  day. 

Cupid  had  pierced  his  ill-clad  heart ; 

He  writhed  beneath  the  clinging  dart. 

A  week  that  day,  they  met  again. 
But  she  with  gladness,  he  with  pain. 
At  afternoon,  when  church  was  over, 


74  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

The  sad,  unhappy,  mournful  lover. 

In  gloomy  mood,  walked  silent  on, 

While  his  dark  fate  he  mused  upon, 

When,  suddenly,  he  saw  before  him 

A  sight  that  sent  a  quick  thrill  o'er  him, 

His  Betty  —  blithesome,  "  sonsie,"  gay, 

In  all  her  jewelled  pink  array. 

"  I^ow  is  the  time,"  thought  he,  "  now  I 

Will  speak  to  her,  I  can  but  try." 

He  hastened  on  with  rapid  stride. 

And  soon  was  walking  by  her  side. 

But  ah !  to  speak  he  vainly  tried. 

On  —  on  —  they  walked,  no  word  was  spoken, 

The  solemn  stillness  all  unbroken. 

His  mouth  was  dry  and  parched  and  now 

Stood  drops  of  anguish  on  his  brow. 

His  trembling  limbs  began  to  fail  — 

He  gasped  for  breath  —  'twas  no  avail. 

"  There's  no  alternative,"  thought  he, 

"  One  of  two  things  must  surely  be. 

Only  two  paths  before  me  lie. 

For  I  must  either  speak,  or  —  die !  " 

Just  as  he  closed  this  rev'rie  brief. 

Fair  Betty  came  to  his  relief. 

With  woman's  tact  she  had  divined 

The  thoughts  then  passing  through  his  mind. 

No  foolish  pride  she  weakly  heeded. 

Directly  to  the  case  proceeded. 

In  dulcet  tones  to  him  more  sweet 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  76 

Than  cooling  showers  'mid  summer's  heat, 

Bliss,  —  rapture  to  his  heart  they  carried. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Clark,  why  ar'n't  you  married  ?  " 

He  gasped  out,  though  he  scarce  knew  how, 

"  Why,  none  will  take  me,  dear  Miss  Dow." 

Again  that  voice,  "  so  softly  clear. 

Fell  gently  on  his  ravished  ear," 

"  There's  never  a  Jack  without  a  Gill, 

If  one  won't,  another  will." 

His  heart  now  felt  a  glimmering  ray 

Of  hope  ;  he  knew  not  what  to  say. 

A  pause  ensued,  —  an  awkward  pause,  — 

She  added  then  another  clause : 

"  Did'st  ever  try  it,  Aaron  dear  ?  " 

"  Alas,  sweet  Betty,  for  the  fear 

Of  not  succeeding,  —  no,  ah  !  no." 

Again  he  heard  those  accents  low : 

"  There's  no  denial. 

Without  a  trial." 
Ah !  Aaron's  heart  now  leaped  for  joy, 
Homefelt  and  deep,  without  alloy. 
He  grasped  her  hand,  the  die  was  cast. 
The  Rubicon  was  over-past. 
He  saw  those  deep-set,  green-gray  eyes 
Upturned  to  his  in  sweet  surprise 
No  more.     Should  I  expose  to  sight 
Young  hearts,  that  hail  Love's  dawning  light  ? 
Should  I  intrude  my  stranger  ear. 
Love's  mystic  cadences  to  hear  ? 


76  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Canto  Eifth. 
The  Wedding. 

The  happy  day  came  on  apace. 
Youug  Betty  stood,  with  smiling  face, 
Before  the  glass,  arranged  her  tresses, 
Put  on  the  whitest  of  white  dresses, 
Becoming  to  her  fair  complexion. 
And  fitting  with  complete  perfection. 
And,  to  be  dressed  in  full,  she  needs 
Must  don  the  silver  ring  and  beads. 
The  breast-pin,  too,  one  there  might  see, 
In  all  its  brazen  brilliancy. 
She  deemed  it  then  her  bounden  duty 
To  veil  with  lace  her  blushing  beauty. 
Thus  in  her  bridal  finery  decked. 
She  stood  before  her  lord  elect. 
He  gazed  at  her  and  she  at  him. 
For  Aaron  looked  so  nice  and  trim 
She  scarce  believed  it  was  himself. 
But  some  mischievous  goblin  elf. 
His  broadcloth  coat  was  black  as  jet; 
His  beaver  hat  was  blacker  yet ; 
Beneath  its  rim  his  eyes  peeped  out, 
And  half  bewildered  gazed  about. 
A  collar  with  no  mean  pretensions, 
Of  most  magnificent  dimensions, 
Screened  by  its  snowy  mammoth  size 
His  modest  head  from  peering  eyes. 


A   METRICAL   ROMANCE  77 

He  cased  his  hands,  brown,  strong,  and  great, 

In  kids,  the  most  immaculate  ; 

And  then  with  gentlemanly  ease, 

Did  Betty's  hand  with  fervor  seize. 

Soon  to  the  clergyman's  they  hied, 

To  have  the  hard  knot  duly  tied. 

Within  the  house  they  took  their  station. 

With  mingled  joy  and  trepidation. 

The  parson  then  commenced  the  banns  ; 

He  bade  the  party  join  right  hands. 

On  Aaron's  right  Miss  Betty  stood, 

"  Ah !  this  is  wrong,"  thought  she,  "  I  should 

Have  been  where  Aaron  is,  and  he 

Have  had  this  place  instead  of  me." 

Then  in  a  trice  the  gentle  bride 

Stepped  over  on  the  other  side. 

But  ah !  the  matter  was  not  mended. 

The  puzzle  was  by  no  means  ended. 

His  hand  was  wrong,  now  hers  was  right, 

So  back  again  she  took  her  flight. 

Still  on  her  brain  no  friendly  gleam 

Of  Ingenuity's  sun-beam 

Suggested,  just  her  hand  to  cross. 

And  so  the  trouble  would  be  lost. 

The  bridegroom  gazed,  with  wondering  face, 

But  could  not  the  dark  labyrinth  trace. 

Ah  !  yes,  he  could  !  a  ray  of  light 

Shot  suddenly  across  the  night ! 


78  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

The  right  thought  struck  his  precious  head. 

"  Here  !  Betty,  here !  "  he  quickly  said, 

Forgetting  in  his  joyful  haste 

The  circumstance  of  time  and  place. 

The  difficulty  now  was  o'er, 

And  Betty  breathed  again  once  more. 

The  ceremony  then  went  on, 

The  happy  twain  were  soon  made  one. 

Their  griefs  no  more,  their  troubles  past, 

For  Hymen's  cord  now  bound  them  fast. 

Will  not  all  give  congratulation. 

For  this  so  blissful  consummation  ? 

Farewell,  farewell !  0  happy  pair  ! 
Long  may  the  Fates  in  mercy  spare 
Your  happiness ;  and  may  your  name 
Descend  in  laurel  wreaths  of  fame, 
The  glory  of  your  world-praised  nation, 
Throughout  the  lapse  of  Time's  duration  ! 
Blessed,  thrice  blessed,  be  the  life 
Of  Aaron  Clark,  Esquire,  and  Wife. 
Jdne,  1850. 


yn 


LITTLE   KATY  79 

"LITTLE   KATY" 

EEKLY  in  her  life's  glad  spring-time 

Hath  she  laid  her  down  to  rest ; 
Folded  are  the  white  hands  gently 

On  the  still  untroubled  breast ; 
On  the  pale  and  pulseless  forehead 

Clustering  locks  all  damply  lie  ; 
Beams  no  light  of  love  and  gladness 

From  the  ever  closed  eye. 

Softly  over  hill  and  valley 

Steals  the  fragrant  southern  breeze, 
Whispering  with  a  low-voiced  sadness 

To  the  gloomy  forest  trees ; 
On  the  hillside  and  the  meadow 

Where  the  clouds  their  shadows  fling, 
By  the  broad,  blue-rolling  river 

Stands  the  warmly  smiling  spring. 

But  her  lightly -bounding  footstep 

Presseth  not  the  velvet  earth ; 
Through  the  lonely  halls  resound eth 

Nevermore  her  tone  of  mirth. 
In  the  charmed  household  circle. 

Which  her  love  hath  blessed  so  long, 
Meet  ye  not  her  kindly  welcome, 

Hear  ye  not  her  joyous  song. 


80  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Let  the  bright  eye  and  the  sunny, 

Weep  the  eye  forever  dim ; 
Let  the  red  lips  for  the  pallid 

Breathe  a  mournful  requiem  ; 
Let  the  heart  with  life-blood  throbbing, 

Mourn  the  heart  beneath  the  sod ; 
But  let  fall  no  tear  of  sorrow 

For  the  soul  gone  up  to  God. 

Gone  in  youth  and  love  and  beauty. 

To  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest ; 
Ere  the  cup  of  life  was  mingled 

With  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
Ere  the  joys  of  life  were  withered 

Like  the  autumn  leaves  in  fall. 


«  Gone  before  us,"  "  little  Katy," 

Through  the  Jordan's  swelling  stream, 
To  the  land  of  light  and  glory. 

From  this  land  of  doubt  and  dream. 
«  Gone  before  us,"  "little  Katy," 

Through  the  portals  of  the  skies, 
"  Dead  thou  art  not,  but  departed. 

For  the  spirit  never  dies." 


LITTLE   KATY  81 

"  Little  Katy,"  for  a  moment 

Canst  thou  leave  the  realms  of  day  ? 
From  the  Saviour's  marred  visage, 

Canst  thou  ever  turn  away  ? 
From  the  choral  band  of  angels, 

Can  thy  harp  be  laid  aside  ? 
Then,  dear  Katy,  may  we  wait  thee 

At  the  quiet  evening  tide  ? 

Meet  us  when  the  morning  blusheth 

O'er  the  everlasting  hills ; 
Meet  us  when  the  sunlight  danceth 

In  the  thousand  mountain  rills. 
Though  our  eyes  may  not  behold  thee 

In  thy  robes  of  spotless  white, 
Be  thy  spirit  near  us  guiding 

Ever  onward  to  the  right. 

And  when  Earth  from  us  recedeth. 

Shrinking  back  from  Death's  alarms, 
Gently  laid  beneath  us  also 

Be  the  everlasting  arms. 
Safely  passed  into  the  Heavens 

Shall  thy  song  and  ours  be  one, 
Glory  be  to  God  the  Father 

And  the  ever  blessed  Son. 
God  the  Spirit  —  God  the  Son. 
April  26,  1853. 


82  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

DITHYKAMBIC 

NEVER,  believe  me,  come  the  Gods, 
Never  alone. 

Welcome  I  Bacchus,  the  God  of  joy, 
And  in  comes  Cupid,  the  laughing  boy, 
With  Phoebus,  of  gold  locks  and  silvery  tone. 
They  come ;  they  come  ; 
They  are  thronging  into  my  earthly  hall. 

Say  how  shall  I  feast  you,  I,  the  earth-born, 

Heavenly  band? 

0  give  me  the  boon  of  immortal  life ! 

With  Gods  can  the  death-doomed  win  in  strife  ? 

Waft  me  away  to  that  far-off  land  ! 

Heaven  alone  can  fill  my  soul  — 

Let  me  quaff  the  nectar,  reach  hither  the  bowl. 

Pass  thither  the  bowl ;  be  it  crowned  for  the  Poet 

Hebe,  alone. 

Let  his  eyes  be  enclouded  with  heavenly  dew, 

That  the  thrice  fearful  Stygian  meet  not  his  view, 

That  he  think  himself  one  of  our  own. 

It  ripples,  it  sparkles,  that  fountain  of  light  — 

The  heart  grows  calm  —  the  dimmed  eye  bright. 

From  the  German  of  Schiller.     1853. 


THE   YOUTH  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN  83 

THE  YOUTH   AT   THE   FOUNTAIN 

IN  the  sunny  gleam  of  the  fountain, 
The  youth  his  chaplet  laves, 
And  he  sees  it  hurried  seaward 

In  the  dance  of  the  wanton  waves. 
And  so  are  my  young  days  passing, 

Like  the  streamlet  restless  on, 
And  so  is  my  fresh  youth  fading. 

Like  the  wreath,  and  as  quickly  gone. 

Ask  not  why  I  pass  in  sadness 

The  hours  of  festive  mirth ; 
There  is  joy  and  hope  around  me 

When  spring  bounds  o'er  the  earth  ; 
But  the  thousand  voiced  Nature 

Calls  forth  no  answering  tone  ; 
It  wakes  in  my  lonely  bosom 

The  notes  of  sorrow  alone. 

What  hath  the  young  spring  proffered 

That  I  should  join  in  the  glee  ? 
One  only  gift  I  sought  for, 

It  is  near  yet  far  from  me. 
With  outstretched  arms,  the  phantom 

I  would  clasp  to  my  yearning  breast. 
Alas  !  they  encircle  it  never ; 

For  my  weary  heart  no  rest. 


84  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Come  hither,  0  beautiful  maiden  ; 

Forsake  thy  lordly  home ; 
I  will  scatter  flowers  in  thy  pathway 

Wherever  thy  feet  may  roam  ; 
With  songs  are  the  woods  resounding ; 

Their  chorus  the  waters  swell ; 
There  is  room  in  the  smallest  cottage 

For  loving  hearts  to  dwell. 

German  of  Schiller.     1863. 


n 


HOPE 

EN  talk  and  dream  of  that  better  land 
Home  of  our  weary  race  — 

On  to  a  glowing  sunlit  goal 
They  lead  the  eager  chase. 

The  world  grows  old  and  young  again 

Yet  man  hopes  on  mid  toil  and  pain. 

Hope  beckoneth  out  to  earnest  life  — 

It  hovers  round  the  boy  — 
Its  magic  glimmer  lures  the  youth 

And  makes  the  old  man's  joy  — 
Life,  to  the  grave,  he  yieldeth  up  — 
Yet  on  that  grave  he  planteth  hope. 


FROM  THE   GERMAN  86 

'Tis  not  a  phantom  of  the  brain, 

Sick  of  this  ceaseless  strife  : 
It  ringeth  in  the  inmost  heart 

Born  for  a  higher  life. 
And  what  that  inner  voice  hath  taught 
The  hoping  soul  deceiveth  not. 

German  of  Schiller.     1853. 


FROM   THE   GERMAN 

GIVE  you  the  world,  cried  the  King  of  the  Gods 

From  the  heights  of  Olympus'  throne. 
To  the  children  of  men,  bear  it  hence  away, 

For  the  world  shall  be  your  own. 
I  transfer  it  to  you  an  inheritance, 

The  deed  shall  be  ever  good, 
Yet  see  that  ye  quarrel  not  for  your  shares, 

But  divide  it  as  brothers  should. 

Whoever  had  hands  hurried  breathless  then 

To  grasp  the  glittering  pelf. 
They  were  equally  busy,  young  and  old, 

Each  to  enrich  himself. 
The  farmer  rushed  for  the  teeming  fields 

Waving  with  golden  corn ; 
While  the  fiery  youth  blew  through  the  woods 

The  blast  of  his  bugle  horn. 


86  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

Huge  coffers,  heavy  with  yellow  gold  — 

Jewels  and  silk  and  lace 
Fluttered  before  the  merchant's  eyes 

As  he  started  upon  the  chase. 
The  abbot  was  fired  with  a  kindred  zeal 

To  collect  the  last  year's  wine, 
While  the  king  barricaded  bridges  and  streets 

And  declared :  The  tenth  part  is  mine. 

But  when  the  division  was  quite  complete 

And  filled  was  each  grasping  hand, 
The  poet  came  with  a  dust-stained  robe 

From  a  far-away  unknown  land. 
But  alas !  alas  !  he  was  just  too  late, 

The  inheritance  all  was  gone, 
Each  waving  acre  had  found  a  lord  — 

For  the  luckless  bard,  not  one. 

Ah  me !  forgotten  am  I  alone, 

The  son  of  thy  warmest  love  ? 
Wailed  the  ill-starred  poet  with  bitter  lament, 

As  he  knelt  at  the  feet  of  Jove. 
Why  tarriest  thou  in  the  land  of  dreams  ? 

Spake  the  God,  yet  blame  not  me. 
Where  went  thou  when  the  earth  was  shared  ? 

I  was,  said  the  poet,  with  thee. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  MAIDEN  87 

My  eyes  were  gazing  upon  thy  face 

As  I  knelt  in  silence  here, 
And  the  ravishing  notes  of  immortal  song 

Melted  upon  my  ear. 
Oh !  pardon  thy  child  in  the  throng  of  the  Gods 

Forgetting  his  mortal  birth, 
If  drunk  with  thy  glory  he  loitered  behind 

And  lost  the  treasures  of  earth. 

Ah,  what  shall  be  done,  cried  compassionate  Jove, 

Though  I  would  not  say  thee  nay. 
Yet  the  harvest,  the  chase,  and  the  market  are  gone. 

The  world  is  given  away. 
I  will  grant  thee  a  better  than  earthly  boon, 

A  dwelling  in  heaven  with  me ; 
Whenever  thy  footsteps  shall  hitherward  tend 

Its  portals  are  open  to  thee. 
1853. 

THE    MYSTERIOUS   MAIDEN 

IN  a  valley,  with  the  shepherds. 
At  the  bloom  of  each  young  year. 
When  the  larks  their  spring  notes  warbled. 
Walked  a  maiden  wondrous  fair. 

Born  without  the  quiet  valley. 
Never  knew  they  whence  she  came ; 
Often  though  they  gave  her  greeting. 
None  could  tell  the  maiden's  name. 


88  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Yet  her  parting  footfall  ever 
O'er  their  hearts  a  shadow  threw ; 
Tones  of  more  than  mortal  sweetness. 
Bore  the  maiden's  fond  adieu. 

Blessing-breathing  was  her  presence 
At  the  hush  of  twilight  hour ; 
Tottering  age  or  gold-tressed  childhood 
Felt  alike  her  gentle  power. 

Yet  a  sweet  and  solemn  sadness 
On  her  fair  young  face  they  saw, 
And  her  fragile  form  invested 
With  a  strange  unwonted  awe. 

Flowers  and  fruits  she  ever  carried 
Ripened  in  another  land, 
By  the  warmth  of  other  sunbeams 
From  a  kinder  Nature's  hand. 

Lavishly  her  gifts  bestowing 
None  were  passed  unnoticed  o'er, 
Flowers  or  fruits  to  man  and  maiden. 
All  partook  her  bounteous  store. 

Welcome  every  guest  was  to  her, 
But  for  any  loving  pair 
Were  her  choicest  gifts  selected, 
Richest  fruits  and  flowers  most  fair. 

From  the  German.     1853. 


SEHN-SUCHT  89 

SEHN-SUCHT 

'ROM  out  this  lowly  vale 

O'er  which  the  gray  clouds  hover, 

How  blessed  were  my  lot 
Could  I  a  path  discover. 

I  see  yon  virgin  hills 

Forever  fresh  and  blooming ; 

0  for  an  eagle's  wings 

To  bear  me  through  the  gloaming. 

1  hear  celestial  tones 

From  seraph  lips  outringing. 
Soft  breezes  are  to  me 

The  breath  of  spices  bringing ; 
I  see  the  golden  fruits 

Blink  through  the  dark  green  masses  — 
The  flowers  o'er  whose  young  heads 

No  wintry  tempest  passes. 

Thrice  happy  they  who  dwell 

Where  yon  sun  ever  shineth, 
Where  soft  airs  kiss  the  hills, 

For  which  my  spirit  pineth. 
But  woe  is  me  —  I  hear 

The  roaring  of  the  river, 
Whose  black  waves  dash  against  my  soul, 

Forever  and  forever. 


90  CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

The  only  skiff  I  see, 

Alas,  no  helmsman  beareth. 
Yet  hope  !     Its  sails  are  spread 

Full  safe  for  him  who  dareth. 
Thou  must  have  faith  ;  for  Jove 

Will  hurl  no  prescient  thunder ; 
Nought  but  a  wonder  bears  thee 

On  to  the  land  of  wonder. 


SCHILLEK. 


Hartford,  Conn.,  April  22,  1854. 

MIDI^IGHT 

SILENTLY  in 
Floats  the  balmy  air, 
Gently  lifts  her  wavy  hair, 
Daintily  in  soft  caresses 
Dallieth  mid  the  golden  tresses 
Of  my  darling,  as  she  lies 
With  the  delicate  lids  low  drooping 
Wearily  over  her  radiant  eyes  — 
Dreaming  brightly 

She  reposes 
Touch  her  lightly 
Breath  of  roses. 

Silently  in 
Melt  the  silver  beams, 
Web  and  woof  of  youthful  dreams, 


MIDNIGHT  91 

With  a  liquid  glory  now 
Bathing  all  her  holy  brow, 
Gleaming  from  each  dreamy  fold 
Of  enwreathing  pliant  gold, 
Flashing  many  a  regal  gem. 
Crowning  with  a  diadem 
All  the  beauty  breathing  there, 
Calmly,  stilly,  resting  then. 

Dreaming  airily. 
Angels  seeming 

Crown  her  fairily 
Golden  gleaming. 

Silently  in 
Once  a  girlish  tread 
Glided  through  the  ghostly  dread 
And  twilight  chambers,  where  the  pall  ' 
Of  my  dead  hopes  o'er-shrouded  all. 
Where  my  soul,  un joyous  lord, 
Where  my  soul  kept  watch  and  ward, 
Where  my  heart  lay  stiff  and  cold 
In  the  cerements'  clammy  fold. 
Guileless  or  of  shame  or  sin. 
Lightly  tripped  the  maiden  in  — 
Thrilled,  subdued,  in  homage  meet 
Bowed  my  stern  soul  at  her  feet. 
From  that  mouldering  charnel  hall 
Vanished  the  funereal  pall, 


92  CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Like  the  mist  of  morning  skies 
In  the  sunlight  of  her  eyes  — 
At  the  incense  of  her  breath 
Rending  off  the  bands  of  death, 
With  one  pang  of  mortal  strife, 
Forth  my  heart  leaped  into  life. 
Knelt  in  reverence  down  to  her 
As  beseems  a  worshipper  — 
Now  a  humble  genial  soul  — 
Now  a  heart  by  her  made  whole  — 
Pour  the  red  and  humid  wine, 
Crown  the  chalice  at  a  shrine 
That  is  only  not  divine  — 

Breath  of  even 
Fan  her  lightly, 

Sheen  of  Heaven 
Crown  her  brightly. 
May,  1854. 


EESOLUTION 

T  is  done.     My  bowed  spirit  hath  risen  amain. 
Hath   conquered    her   weakness,   hath   riven    her 

chain  — 
I  gaze  on  your  beauty,  but  bend  not  the  knee  — 
Not  a  pulse  stirs  more  wildly,  I  am  free !  I  am  free  ! 


RESOLUTION  93 

Yet  the  rose  on  your  cheek  hath  lost  none  of  its 

bloom, 
That  brow  is  undarkened  by  shadow  of  gloom, 
On  the  blue  eye  and  red  lip  the  smile  is  as  bright 
As  when  I  first  basked  in  its  unchanging  light. 

It  is  in   my  own   soul  such   a  change  hath  been 

wrought 
That  I  calmly  look  on  —  a  nerve  quivereth  not  — 
And  I  breathe  but  a  sigh  that  a  form  so  divine 
Should  embody  a  spirit  ignoble  as  thine. 

You  mistook  me  —  you  thought  I  was  one  of  the 

crowd 
That  down  at  your  altar  adoringly  bowed  — 
For  whom  life  had  no  higher  or  holier  aim. 
Who  cared  not  for  duty  —  who  recked  not  of  fame. 

True  :  Passion  for  one  little  hour  held  control. 
And  its  tide  swept  resistlessly  over  my  soul  — 
The  sword  of  my  strength  was  corroded  with  rust, 
And  the  robes  of  my  manhood  were  trailed  in  the 
dust. 

But  not  thus  was  the  greenness  of  life  to  be  blighted, 
Your  own  hand  quenched  the  flame  which  the  same 

hand  had  lighted, 
The  face  and  the  form  are  surpassingly  fair. 
The  crown  and  the  glory  —  the  soul  —  is  not  there. 


94  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

And  thus  when  your  heart  lent  indifferent  ear 
To  the  tale  that  your  vanity  panted  to  hear, 
You  did  me  good  service,  my  lady,  I  trow. 
I  shall  be  to  you  never  less  grateful  than  now. 

Eor  you  broke  me  the  spell,  I  awaked  to  new  life, 
I  am  strong  for  endurance  and  action  and  strife ; 
I  have  sworn  to  embody  a  worthier  part, 
I  am  sterner  of  soul^  I  am  braver  of  heart, 

I  bid  you  farewell  then  forever  and  ever  ; 

I  have  launched  my  good  barque  on  the  waves  of 

Life's  river. 
It  shall  mount  every  billow  that  rears  its  white 

crest 
From  the  gray  of  the  East  to  the  purple-flecked 

West. 

And  if,  gentle  lady,  the  swift-footed  years 
Shall  bring,  as  they  shall,  my  name  to  your  ears. 
If  a  chaplet  of  laurel  encircle  the  brow 
That  ever  flushed  for  you,  but  is  marble  cold  now, 

Kemember,  I  pray,  that  the  garland  you  view 
Caught  its  first  glowing  freshness  and  verdure  from 

you. 
That  in  your  heartless  words  and  the  smile  of  your 

scorn 
The  impulse  that  led  me  to  glory  was  born. 


MORNING  95 


MOENING 


L 


YING  on  my  white  couch 

In  the  early  day, 

Through  the  open  casement 

I  hear  the  breezes  play. 

Quiet  little  greetings 

To  the  dewy  morn, 
From  each  timid  leaflet 

Quiveringly  upborne, 

Rustling  through  the  grape  vines 

Twined  to  mystic  shapes. 

Stirring  all  the  clusters 

Of  the  purple  grapes. 

In  the  golden  sunlight 

On  my  chamber  floor, 
Lo  the  shadows  flitting, 

Flitting  evermore. 

Falling  on  the  wainscot 

Brown  and  worn  and  old, 
Wrought  by  fairy  sunbeams 

Into  burnished  gold. 


96  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,  AND  VESTIGES 

Bathed  in  softened  splendor 

Lies  the  antique  room, 

"  Fairy  sunbeams  "    chasing 

Far  the  midnight  gloom. 

All  the  velvet  cushion 

Whence  upriseth  prayer, 
Wreathing  with  a  halo 

Of  impurpled  air. 

Resting  on  the  Christ^head 

With  a  solemn  light, 

Mysteries  revealing 

Shrouded  erst  in  night. 

Jesu !  God-Man  !  pity. 

On  my  anguish  wild, 
Turn  thy  face  benignant 

To  thy  suffering  child. 

Still  the  fiery  surgings 

Of  my  tortured  soul. 

Sorrow-tossed  and  sin-stained, 

Make  me  pure  and  whole. 

*  So  the  morning  walketh 

Gloriously  forth, 
Breathing  fragrant  incense 

From  the  grateful  earth. 


n 


ALONE  97 

Thou  too  from  thy  slumbers 

Wake,  O  spirit  mine, 
Gather  up  thy  garments. 

Show  a  life  divine. 

Weak  Despair,  Avaunt ! 

Thou  hast  held  me  long, 
Leaps  my  soul  defiant, 

I  am  strong  !  am  strong. 


ALONE 

OANING,  sobbing,  howling,  shrieking 

Sweeps  the  night-wind  by. 
Fearful  wailings,  fierce  contendings 

In  the  wrathful  sky ; 
But  within  the  fire-light,  reckless 

Of  the  wreathing  snow, 
Flitteth,  danceth,  leapeth,  setteth 

All  the  room  aglow. 

Yet  in  vain  the  airy  prancing 

Of  the  rosy  light. 
Vain  to  keep  the  brooding  shadows 

Off  my  heart  to-night. 
Heeding  not  at  all  the  beauty 

Which  it  loveth  best. 
But  the  writhings  of  the  storm-god 

In  his  wild  unrest. 


98  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

So  my  soul  takes  up  the  wailing, 

And  my  eyes  are  dimmed, 
Thinking  of  the  hopes  that  flourished 

"When  Life's  cup  was  brimmed, 
Thinking  of  the  dew-wet  garlands 

That  entwined  my  brow, 
Thinking  of  the  desolation 

That  enshrouds  it  now. 


Oh,  the  bliss  !  the  thrill  — the  madness 

Of  my  early  dreaming ! 
Oh,  the  brilliance  of  that  sunlight 

O'er  my  pathway  streaming ! 
Oh,  the  weary,  hopeless  aching ! 

Oh,  the  dull  hard  sorrow, 
Shrouding  the  relentless  Present, 

Shadowing  the  morrow. 


In  yon  village  church-yard  resteth 

Many  a  weary  sleeper  ; 
But  my  heart  outnumbereth  all, 

And  its  graves  are  deeper. 
They  shall  yet  with  life  immortal 

Up  to  glory  soar. 
Glide  my  buried  through  Death's  portal 

Never,  never  more. 


SHADOWS  99 

And  on,  still  on,  the  great  world  goeth, 

Sparing  not  my  pain. 
Treading  on  my  quivering  heart-strings 

With  a  calm  disdain, 
Crushing  all  my  fairy  fancies. 

Scorning  my  appealings, 
Mocking  at  my  agony 

For  its  stern  revealings. 
Ajid  is  this  life  ?     0  God  in  heaven, 

Hear  my  earnest  prayer, 
In  the  darkness  lost,  bewildered, 

Groping  everywhere. 
Dec,  23,  1854. 

SHADOWS 

^OWN  the  long  lane  with  slow  footfall 

I  saw  him  go ; 
Above  his  pale  brow,  pale  moon-beams ; 

Beneath,  the  snow. 

Deep  into  the  old  oaks'  broad  shadow 

His  pathway  led. 
And  their  bare  old  arms  they  tossed  wildly 

Above  his  head. 

But  he  passed  out  from  the  old  oaks'  shadow 

Unscathed  and  free, 
Out  into  the  flooding  moonlight 

Away  from  me. 


100         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Then  a  shadow  settled  down  on  my  heart 

From  the  still  air ; 
Deeper,  darker,  than  the  old  oaks'  shadow, 

It  resteth  there. 
Feb.  26,  1855. 


"MAN  GOETH  TO  THE  GRAVE  AND  WHERE 
IS   HE?" 


D 


IM  —  dim  —  dim — 
"  The  love-light  of  fond  eyes  " 
A  warmer  gleam  than  ever  beamed 
From  balmy  Southern  skies. 


Cold — cold  —  cold  — 
Lips,  red  as  ruby  wine. 
As  dew-drop  on  the  lily's  cup, 

So  pressed  those  lips  to  mine. 

Still  —  still  —  still  — 
The  music  of  a  tone 
Whose  softest  cadence  thrilled  my  soul 
With  sweetness  all  its  own. 

Dust  —  dust  —  dust  — 
An  earnest  throbbing  heart, 
Whose  pulses  waked  a  bliss  naught  else 
Can  evermore  impart. 


TO  101 

Gone  —  gone  —  gone  — 
Over  the  silent  river, 
Home,  hope,  and  heart  —  light,  love,  and  life  — 
Forever  and  forever. 

And  what  is  left  to  me  ? 
A  tress  of  sunny  hair, 
A  dark,  dark  earth  —  a  cold,  cold  sky  — 
A  memory  —  and  —  despair  ! 

Habtfokd,  Conw.,  April  14,  1855. 


TO 


OMANDA,  watching  with  the  stars  to-night, 
Sad  memories  throng   the  chambers  of   my 
soul. 
The  Past  is  shadowy  with  uncertain  light. 

The  Future  beckoneth  to  a  nameless  goal. 
The  ancient  land-marks  which  my  fathers  set 

Are  vanishing  in  darkness  one  by  one  ; 
Fierce  clouds  in  stern  and  gloomy  grandeur  met. 
Are  gathering  blackness  round  my  morning  sun. 

The  early  loved  of  girlhood's  thoughtless  hours 
Are  far  and  farther  evermore  from  me  — 

Some  in  their  dark  hair  wreathed  orange  flowers, 
And  some  with  white  lips  twined  anemone  — 


102         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

And  now,  O  Manda,  twining  once  again, 

To  thy  dear  face,  I  feel  mine  own  grow  pale, 
My  heart  throbs  heavily  with  sudden  pain, 

I  cannot  see  thee  for  a  bridal  veil  — 
It  floateth  round  thee  like  a  mountain  mist 

Coming  between  us  two  forevermore  ; 
I  know  it,  turn  I  wheresoe'er  I  list. 

Thy  love  for  me  is  not  the  love  of  yore  — 
I  cannot  ask  it,  for  it  may  not  be  — 

It  trembleth  on  thy  lips,  full  warm  for  him ; 
Thy  hushed  face,  calm  for  very  joy  I  see 

His  cup  of  bliss  is  sparkling  to  the  brim  — 

My  shut  lips  I  can  keep  —  my  eyes,  perforce,  grow 
dim. 

Forgive  me,  Manda,  friend,  I  would  not  throw 

One  shadow  o'er  the  path  thy  feet  shall  press ; 
I  will  dream  calmly  of  the  long  ago. 

And  haply  of  thy  future  happiness. 
Forgive  me,  Manda,  for  this  soothless  strain  ; 

Thy  soul-harp,  touched  by  my  unskilful  fingers, 
Perchance  hath  wrought  in  thee  a  silent  pain  — 

If  on  the  chords  one  quivering  note  still  lingers, 
Forget  it.     Give  to  me  no  second  thought  — 

Or,  but  a  second  —  ah  !  not  quite  forgot ! 
Yet  always  mindful  of  his  claims,  who  waits  thy  mar- 
riage vows, 
I  only  crave  a  lesser  love  to  crown  my  lesser  brows. 


TO 103 


TO 


T 


HEY  brought  him  a  chalice  of  wroughten  gold 

And  brimmed  it  with  southern  wine  — 
Pressed  by  the  dark-eyed  Doric  girl 

From  the  fruit  of  the  Cyprian  vine. 
The  delicate  leaf  of  a  snow-white  rose 

He  dropped  on  its  glowing  breast  — 
It  fluttered  and  swayed  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Then  sank  to  its  ruby  rest. 
But  the  goblet's  brim  of  wroughten  gold 

No  drop  did  overflow 
So  gently  the  Cyprian  wine  upbore 

The  rose-leaf,  white  as  snow. 


Thy  heart,  0  friend,  is  full  of  love  to-night, 

All  quivering  with  its  overweight  of  bliss, 
Yet  mindful  of  the  Past's  evanished  light ; 

I  humbly,  Hawthorne,  dare  implore  thee  this  — 
That  as  I  lowly  kneel  before  thy  shrine. 

And  unto  thee  my  grateful  tribute  bring, 
Thou  will  not  spurn  from  thee  this  heart  of  mine, 

But  kindly  take  the  simple  offering. 
So  shall  my  love  lie  lightly  upon  thine, 
Like  snow-white  rose-leaf  on  the  Cyprian  wine. 

For  June  20,  1855, 
Haktfobd,  Conn. 


104         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 


WHAT   IT   MEANT 

E  gave  me  a  knife  one  day  at  school, 

Eour-bladed,  the  handle  of  pearl, 
And  great  black  words  on  the  wrapper  said, 

"  For  the  darlingest  little  girl," 
So  happy  —  oh,  yes  —  yet  the  crimson  blood 

To  my  young  cheek  came  and  went, 
And  my  heart  thumped  wondrously  pit-a-pat, 

But  I  didn't  know  what  it  meant. 

One  night  he  said  I  must  jump  on  his  sled, 

For  the  snow  was  falling  fast; 
I  was  half  afraid,  but  he  coaxed  and  coaxed, 

And  he  got  me  on  at  last  — 
Laughing  and  chatting  in  merry  glee. 

To  my  home  his  course  he  bent. 
And  my  sisters  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled, 

But  I  didn't  know  what  it  meant. 


The  years  passed  on,  and  they  touched  his  eye 

With  a  shadow  of  deeper  blue  ; 
They  gave  to  his  form  a  manlier  grace. 

To  his  cheek  a  swarthier  hue  ; 
We  stood  by  the  dreamily  rippling  brook 

When  the  day  was  nearly  spent  — 
His  whispers  were  soft  as  the  lullaby. 

And  —  now  I  know  what  it  meant ! 
May,  1855. 


NOT  ALL  A  DREAM  106 


"NOT   ALL   A   DREAM" 

OD  bless  the  barque !  with  eager  heart 

I  launched  it  on  the  tide, 
In  new-born  life  exultant  —  proud, 
It  flung  the  spray  aside. 
Its  banners  streamed  —  its  white  sails  gleamed, 

Its  spars  were  all  a-quiver, 
As  freighted  with  my  young  hope  it  passed 
Right  royally  down  the  river. 

I  knew  its  sides  were  the  fleeciness 

That  floats  in  the  summer  cloud ; 
I  knew  that  the  spider's  matchless  skill 

Had  woven  each  silken  shroud  ; 
I  knew  that  the  snowy  swelling  sails 

From  the  lily's  cup  were  given, 
And  the  colors  that  swayed  so  aerily. 

From  the  bow  that  encircles  Heaven. 

But  the  river  was  blue  as  blue  could  be. 

Blue  was  the  summer  sky, 
And  calm  as  the  rippleless  lake  of  light 

That  sleeps  in  a  baby's  eye. 
The  breeze  just  kissed  the  billowy  sail, 

Then  hushed  its  murmuring  breath. 
And  the  fairy  barque  moved  so  statelily, 

Was  there  aught  to  betoken  death? 


106  CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

Woe  —  woe  is  me  !  the  wind  grows  chill, 

The  sky  looks  dull  and  gray, 
The  water  is  black  beneath  the  prows, 

And  icy  cold  the  spray  ; 
The  white-capped  waves  are  dashing  on 

In  maniac  madness  foaming  — 
What  loometh  there  above  the  waves 

So  shadowy  in  the  gloaming  ! 

0  cloud-wrought  barque !     0  ill-starred  barque  ! 

Against  the  black  rocks  driven  ! 
0  wild,  wild  wail  of  agony 

Up-piercing  unto  Heaven  ! 
0  pitiless  waves !  0  demon  waves  ! 

Are  ye  rioting  in  my  woe  ? 
Ye  have  swept  my  hopes,  my  beautiful  hopes, 

To  the  coral  groves  below. 

0  coral  groves  !     Give  up  your  dead 

Beneath  the  sounding  sea. 
They  are  stiff  and  stark  —  they  are  naught  to  you 

They  were  more  than  life  to  me. 
In  vain  !  the  coral  groves  are  deaf 

To  all  but  the  ocean's  roar  — 
My  cloud-wrought  barque  —  my  fair  young  hopes 

Come  back  to  me  no  more. 

Hartford,  Conn.,  July  2,  1866. 


THE  RAIN  107 


THE   RAIN 


THE   rain,  the  rain,  the  beautiful  rain ! 
How  dreamily  it  falls  — 

Murmuring  'mid  the  leafiness 

That  drapes  our  brown  old  walls  — 
Cooling  the  grateful  moss  on  the  rocks 

And  the  little  daisies  beside  them, 
Trickling  into  the  shady  nooks 

Where  violets  love  to  hide  them  — 
Pattering  on  the  dusty  roofs, 

That  were  shrivelled  and  cracked  with  heat 
Bubbling  in  yellow  little  pools 

For  scores  of  little  feet  — 
Drooping  the  hare-bell's  purple  cup  — 

Opening  the  buds  of  the  roses  — 
Leaving  the  coolness  of  summer  dew 

In  the  bosom  of  all  the  posies  — 
Tinkling  amid  the  great  broad  leaves 

Of  the  quivering  tremulous  vine  — 
Dashing  adown  each  delicate  stem 

Marking  a  silver  line  — 
Poising  on  every  leaf  and  bud 

That  sways  in  the  summer  air  — 
Scattering  pearls  of  crystal  light 

Merrily  everywhere. 


108         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

The  trailing  garments  of  the  night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls, 

And  the  rain  —  the  rain  —  the  beautiful  rain  ! 
How  dreamily  it  falls. 

Hartford,  Conn.,  July,  1856. 


TO YOU!     IF  YOU  UNDERSTAND  THEM 

ROSES  budding  and  blushing 
When  "  the  skies  are  ashen  and  sober  "  — 
June's  young  fingers  wreathing 
The  brows  of  the  swart  October  — 
The  dewy  light  of  the  morning 

Gilding  the  evening  hours  — 
Age  bright  with  the  smiles  of  life's  dawning, 
So  whisper  to  me  your  flowers. 

Childhood's  mysterious  slumbers 

Wonderful,  dreamy,  deep  — 
Before  the  gaunt  fingers  of  Care 

Have  plucked  at  the  robes  of  Sleep  — 
Faint  notes  of  a  distant  lyre 

Struck  by  an  unseen  hand  — 
Vaguely  remembered  journey ings 

Into  a  far-off  land  — 
Over  the  sunset  hills, 

Over  the  ocean  billow  — 
Such  are  their  whispers  to  me  — 

The  rose-buds  you  strewed  on  my  pillow. 


TO   AGNES   O'BRIEN  109 

I  accept  tlie  omen  and  pray 

That  their  warm  and  roseate  hue 
May  be  but  a  beautiful  symbol 

Of  the  future  that  waiteth  for  you  — 
That  their  purity,  sweetness,  and  fragrance 

May  circle  your  life  till  it  closes  — 
And  we  trace  out  your  path  to  the  heavens, 

My  love,  by  the  scent  of  the  roses. 

Hartford,  Conn.,  Oct.  19,  1855. 


TO  AGNES   O'BRIEN 

WITH    THE    "  PLYMOUTH    COLLECTION  " 

AS  the  blind  old  Bard  of  Briton's  Isle 
Erst  sung  to  the  throngs  of  men 
How  once  at  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Stood  poor  "  auld  Nickie-Ben," 
And  gazed  at  the  passing  happiness 

Of  the  first  and  sinless  pair, 
And  half  repented  him  to  destroy 
The  bliss  he  might  not  share  — 
So  I,  though  never  a  tuneful  note 
Rolled  over  my  cragged  tongue, 
Cannot  choose  but  bless  in  my  heart,  Agnes, 
Thy  glorious  gift  of  song. 


110         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

I  pray  not  that  the  years  should  pass 

Unnoticed  o'er  thy  brow, 
That  the  burden  of  life  may  never  weigh 

More  heavily  than  now. 
'Twere  wishing  the  pulse  of  a  selfish  heart, 

Or  the  sloth  of  a  sluggard  brain, 
For  the  thoughtless  joy  of  thy  childhood's  hours 

May  never  return  again. 
And  the  mind  that  thinks  and  the  heart  that  feels 

Bears  ever  a  secret  pain. 
We  must  pass  from  the  mystery  of  to-day 

With  a  pang  of  nameless  sorrow 
Into  the  greater  mystery 

Of  the  unrevealed  to-morrow. 


Nor  do  I  pray  that  thy  onward  way 

Demand  no  earnest  toil, 
For  how  can  he  reap  in  the  harvest  time 

Who  has  never  prepared  the  soil  ? 
Or  the  cry  of  a  wailing  world  be  hushed 

By  sitting  in  silence  down  ? 
Or  they  who  have  never  borne  the  cross 

Be  fitted  to  wear  the  crown  ? 
Nay,  thy  life  shall  wane,  thy  light  grow  dim 

If  thy  soul  at  ease  reposes. 
For  the  stout  of  heart  and  the  strong  of  limb 

Best  not  on  a  bed  of  roses. 


TO   THE   REV.    MR.   B.  m 

But  I  pray,  Agnes,  that  thy  life  may  flow 

Harmoniously  along 
Like  the  grand  and  perfect  symphony 

Of  a  noble  and  stirring  song  ; 
That  thine  earnest  work  and  thine  earnest  rest 

Thy  joy  and  thy  woe  may  be 
Commingled  into  a  choral  tide 

Of  spirit-full  melody ; 
That  thy  voice  attuned  'mid  many  tears 

In  the  darkness  of  earth's  long  even 
May  ring  out  with  the  rapture  of  new-found  bliss 

In  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  heaven. 
Habtfokd,  Conn.,  Dec.  31,  1855. 


TO   THE   REV.   MR.    B. 

WHO    SKNT     ME    A    CARD-CASE     MADE    OF    OlilVE-WOOD 
FROM    JERUSALEM 

I    DREAM  of  a  beautiful  far-off  land 
Bathed  in  a  purple  glory. 
Of  sculptured  grotto  and  golden  fane 
Embalmed  in  song  and  story. 
The  fragrant  breath  of  her  summer-tide 

Just  stirreth  the  tremulous  vine, 
And  the  life  asleep  on  her  hazy  hills 
Sparkles  in  blood-red  wine. 


112         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Anon  the  notes  of  a  distant  lute, 

Swept  by  the  hand  of  her  dark-browed  daughters, 
Floated  to  me  from  her  lattice  bowers 

Over  the  still  and  moonlit  waters. 

I  dream  again  —  and  the  silent  years 

Like  a  snow  wreath  melt  away, 
And  the  long  dead  Past  is  before  me,  quick 

With  the  gloomy  life  of  to-day. 
A  weary  earth  lies  faint  and  parched 

In  the  clasp  of  the  fiery  sun,  — 
I  see  in  the  shade  of  the  olive  trees 

The  form  of  the  Holy  One  ! 
0  Christ !     0  God  !     In  thy  lowliness 

Bearing  a  weight  of  woe. 
Which  mortals  may  never  never  feel. 

Which  only  a  God  can  know. 

And  dreaming  thus  —  I  dream  of  thee 

As  verily  it  beseems. 
Who  wove  me  the  magic  spell  whereby 

I  behold  all  beautiful  dreams  ; 
Who  tinted  my  cold  and  wintry  sky 

With  the  warmth  of  Orient  gleams  — 
Ah !  priceless  boon  !     Can  a  surer  pledge 

Of  friendship  be  ever  given 
Than  to  twine  the  thoughts  of  the  loved  on  Earth 

With  the  Christ  we  love  in  Heaven  ? 

Haktford,  Conn.,  Jan.  4,  1856. 


n 


VALE   ET   SALVE  113 

VALE  ET   SALVE 

AY  mornings  !  May  mornings  ! 

We  bid  you  good-by. 
You  spread  us  the  blue 

Of  our  soft-smiling  sky. 
"Wove  garlands  of  green 

For  tbe  wakening  earth, 
And  kissed  the  young  buds 

Into  full  blossom  birth. 
New  balm  in  the  breezes, 

New  light  on  the  river  — 
May  mornings,  May  mornings, 

We  bless  you  forever. 

But  there  breathes  through  our  blessings 

A  sad  farewell 
Like  the  mournful  tones 

Of  a  silver  bell. 
You  pass  in  your  glory 

Of  greeting  away. 
With  singing  and  dancing, 

We  welcome  you.  May  ! 
With  a  pain  at  the  heart 

And  a  tear  in  the  eye, 
May  mornings.  May  mornings, 

We  bid  you  good-by. 


114         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

June  roses,  June  roses  ! 

Say  where  do  ye  tarry  ? 
See  ye  not  little  feet 

And  young  eyes  growing  weary, 
Weary  with  waiting 

And  watching  for  you  ? 
Come  smile  in  the  sunshine, 

Come  weep  in  the  dew. 
Hark !  the  low  voice 

Of  the  soft  south  breeze 
Up  in  the  tops 

Of  the  tall  pine  trees. 
She  has  tales  to  tell 

Of  a  far-off  land 
Where  the  sweet-scented  orange  groves 

White- vestured  stand. 
And  see  !  in  her  breath. 

How  the  old  earth  rejoices 
And  answers  her  back 

With  a  thousand  voices. 
Out  on  the  hillside 

The  young  lambs  are  flinging, 
All  the  apple  blooms 

Thrill  with  gay  singing. 

Brooks  ripple  down 

With  a  musical  laughter, 
And  bare  little  feet  trip  on 

Noiselessly  after. 


VALE   ET   SALVE   AGAIN  115 


Poised  in  the  clover-tops 

Honey-bees  murmur, 
And  lo  !  on  the  meadow 

The  olive-browed  Summer ! 
O  fairest  and  best 

Of  the  gifts  of  the  year, 
June  roses,  June  roses  ! 

We  welcome  you  here. 
June  3,  1856. 


VALE   ET   SALVE   AGAIN! 

FRAGRANTLY,  softly  as 
Lily  cup  closes 
Faded  away  from  us 
Bright  month  of  roses. 

Throbbing  stars,  glowing  stars, 

Gaze  we  at  even, 
From  the  low-latticed  porch 

Up  into  heaven ; 
Cheerily  chirpeth  the 

Cricket  his  trill. 
Unto  the  listening  air 

Solemn  and  still ; 
Dewy  and  liquid  the 

Breath  of  the  night. 
Placid  and  holy 

The  moon's  tender  light ; 


116         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

The  Shadowy  Spirit 

Of  Summer  draws  nigh 
And  sets  her  fair  crown 

On  the  brow  of  July. 

We  bend  in  the  hush  of  this 

Beautiful  hour, 
Unto  the  spell  of  her 

Magical  power, 
Knowing  the  beauty  and 

Glory  are  given 
From  the  dear  Father 

Who  dwelleth  in  Heaven. 

Queen  of  the  Summer, 

Queen  of  the  Year, 
Hold  forth  thy  sceptre, 

The  kingdom  is  here. 

AILANTH^ 

IN  this  valley  of  shadows  a  maiden  walketh  — 
Her  delicate  feet  press  the  sweet-scented  clover  — 
Her  feet  brush  the  webs  from  the  purple  clover 
When  she  cometh  to  meet  me,  and  I  am  her  lover. 

Sweeter  her  breath  than  the  new-mown  hay  — 
Lighter  her  tread  than  the  snow-flake's  fall  — 
Thus  you  may  know  when  she  cometh  this  way, 
And  I  am  the  master  and  lord  of  all. 


ALLANTHi:  117 

Ye  may  know  by  the  ripples  of  shining  hair 
That  swell  to  the  zephyrs'  viewless  touch, 
Floating  a  moment  in  golden  air, 
Then  gently  sink  to  their  rest  again  — 

Beautiful  ripples  —  beautiful  rest. 
And  this  shower  of  quivering,  fluttering  gold 
May  freely  fall  down  my  tranquil  breast  — 
May  dance  into  forms  of  grace  untold, 
But  only  for  me  shall  their  glory  unfold  — 
My  cheek  and  none  other  shall  feel  their  caresses. 
My  lips  and  none  other  shall  press  the  soft  tresses  — 
My  fingers,  none  others,  may  carelessly  twine  — 

They  are  mine  !     They  are  mine ! 

Ye  may  know  by  the  light  of  her  luminous  eyes  — 
Nay  —  for  they  never  will  shine  on  you  — 
Veiled  from  you  by  the  blue-veined  lids  — 
Shaded  from  you  by  the  sweeping  lashes. 

Downcast  under  a  stranger's  gaze  — 
Veiled  and  shaded,  ah  !  you  should  see 
How  they  sparkle  and  glow  for  me  ! 
Sometimes  dimmed  by  a  tearful  haze, 
When  she  listeneth  tales  of  woe, 
But  never  so  dimmed  but  love  for  me 
Ever  and  ever  shineth  through  ! 

When  "  the  sun  looketh  forth  from  the  halls  of  the 
morning  " 
Ye  may  watch  for  her  foot-fall  among  the  flowers. 


118  CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

She  loveth  the  rosy,  dewy  hours 
That  bear  up  the  train  of  the  regal  dawning  — 
She  loveth  the  warm  and  purple  rim 
Of  the  cold  and  gray  and  eastern  cloud 

Floating  in  seas  of  liquid  fire. 
She  loveth  the  happy  choral  hymn 
Of  the  birds  in  the  meadow  and  woodland  and  grove 

Soaring  upward  higher  and  higher 

Into  that  sea  of  crimson  fire, 
Into  the  great  immensity. 

The  murmuring  winds  have  a  tone  for  her 
Whispering  unto  the  forest  pines : 

Loud  in  joyousness,  hushed  through  fears 
Low  and  soft  and  laden  with  tears, 
Like  the  many-voiced  lutes  of  far  Stamboul 

Swept  by  the  hands  of  her  captive  daughters, 
Wafting  the  lays  of  their  mountain  homes, 

Over  the  still  and  moonlit  waters. 

I  whisper  love  when  I  whisper  "  Ailanthe." 
0  life-giving  name !     0  draught  of  Nepenthe, 

For  all  the  world  bringeth  of  sorrow  and  dole  ! 
Visions  of  beauty  around  me  are  springing, 
Voices  of  music  are  ceaselessly  ringing. 
Surges  of  harmony  beating  the  shore. 

Whereon  sitteth  my  regnant  soul 
Crowned  a  monarch  forevermore. 

July, 1856. 


POPPING  THE  QUESTION  119 

POPPING   THE   QUESTION 

NDER  the  broad  spreading  buttonwood  tree 

We  sat  —  my  love  and  I. 
In  green  and  gold  the  Earth  lay  bathed, 

In  purple  and  gold  the  sky. 
0  matchless  sheen  of  a  fairy  queen  ! 

0  rarer  than  Tyrian  dye  ! 

But  dim  was  the  splendor  of  Earth  and  Heaven 

And  pale  and  cold  to  see, 
For  the  beauty  breathing  by  my  side 

Under  the  buttonwood  tree  — 
So  I  gazed  on  the  grace  of  her  dimpled  face, 

But  she  —  gazed  never  at  me. 

Measured  words  of  love  or  trust 

Never  my  lips  had  spoken, 
But  could  she  not  gauge  with  her  woman's  eye 

The  depth  of  a  silent  token  ? 
But  if  it  be  so  I  shall  never  know ; 

This  silence  must  be  broken. 

And  my  heart  grew  faint  with  ecstatic  pain 

That  was  neither  joy  nor  fear, 
And  an  eager  impulse  leaped  into  life 

My  coming  fate  to  hear  — 
The  marriage  bell  or  the  funeral  knell, 

It  shall  be  now  and  here  ! 


120         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Then  her  quiet  hands  I  grasped,  in  mine 

With  a  fierce  and  sudden  start, 
I  pressed  them  against  my  throbbing  brow, 

Her  heart  to  my  throbbing  heart, 
And  I  said,  "  My  love,  by  the  angels  above, 

Thus,  thus,  we  will  never  part !  '' 

A  dove  of  peace  to  my  baffled  life 

An  angel  taking  rest 
One  moment  whose  memory  never  shall  fade, 

She  lay  on  my  eager  breast ; 
Then  I  loosed  hold  of  my  blissful  fold 

And  waited  for  her  behest. 

I  could  feel  the  shock  of  her  startled  soul 

Surprised  at  its  secret  shrine. 
By  the  sudden  flood  of  light  inpoured 

From  this  passionate  heart  of  mine. 
Thrice  happy  hour  that  gave  such  power, 

Such  dream  of  bliss  divine. 

I  waited  in  tremulous  silence  the  breath 
That  should  bring  to  my  listening  ear 

The  words  for  which  I  had  longed  and  prayed, 
But  ever  despaired  to  hear. 

And  I  drew  her  face  in  a  wild  embrace, 
Xearer  again  and  near. 


A  BATTLE   SONG  FOR  FREEDOM  121 

The  white  lips  moved  —  the  dear  head  drooped, 

Under  mine  the  sweet  eyes  fell. 
"  Dost  thou  love  me,  darling  ?  Speak,  speak  thy 
love, 

Thou  knowest  mine  own  full  well." 
A  tear  and  a  smile  strove  together  the  while, 

"  /  do,  but  I  cannot  tell" 


Sept.  14,  1856. 


yn 


A  BATTLE  SONG  FOR  FREEDOM 

EN  of  action  !     Men  of  might ! 
Stern  Defenders  of  the  right ! 
Are  you  girded  for  the  fight  ? 


Have  you  marked  and  trenched  the  ground 
Where  the  din  of  arms  must  sound 
Ere  the  victor  can  be  crowned  ? 

Have  you  guarded  well  the  coast, 
Have  you  marshalled  all  your  host, 
Standeth  each  man  at  his  post  ? 

Have  you  counted  up  the  cost. 
What  is  gained  and  what  is  lost, 
When  the  foe  your  lines  have  crost  ? 


122        CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,  AND   VESTIGES 

Gained  —  the  infamy  of  fame, 
Gained  —  a  dastard's  deathless  name, 
Gained  —  eternity  of  shame  ! 

Lost  —  desert  of  manly  worth. 
Lost  —  the  right  you  had  by  birth. 
Lost  —  lost !     Freedom  for  the  Earth  ! 

Freemen !     Up  !     The  foe  is  nearing  ! 
Haughty  banners  high  uprearing ! 
Lo !  their  serried  ranks  appearing ! 

Freemen  !     On  !     The  drums  are  beating, 
Will  you  shrink  from  such  a  meeting  ? 
Forward  !     Give  them  hero  greeting  ! 

From  your  hearths  and  homes  and  altars, 
Backward  hurl  your  proud  assaulters. 
He  is  not  a  man  that  falters. 

Hush !  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh 
By  the  God  who  dwells  on  high, 
O  my  brothers,  do  or  die. 

Oct.  25,  1856. 


V 


ARCHIE  DEAN  123 

[for  the  home  journal] 
ARCHIE   DEAN 

By  Jenny  Marsh  Parker 
OULD  you  laugh,  or  would  you  cry  ? 
Would  you  break  your  heart  and  die, 

If  you  had  a  dashing  lover 
Like  my  handsome  Archie  Dean  — 
And  he  should  forget  his  vowings 

By  the  moon,  and  stars,  and  sun, 

To  love  you  forever  more  — 
And  should  go  to  Kitty  Carrol  — 

Who  has  money,  so  they  say  — 
And  with  eyes  love  filled  as  ever. 
Win  her  heart,  that's  like  a  feather. 

Vowing  all  he  had  before  ? 
Prithee,  tell  me,  would  you  cry. 
And  grow  very  sad,  and  die  ? 

Always  in  the  old  romances 

That  dear  Archie  read  to  me  — 
Those  that  pleased  my  girlish  fancies  — 

There  was  ever  sure  to  be 
One  sweet  maiden  with  a  lover 

That  was  never,  never  true  — 
And  when  they  were  widely  parted. 
Then  she  drooped,  poor  broken-hearted  ! 
And  did  break  with  grief  at  last. 
Like  a  lily  in  the  blast. 


124         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Say,  would  you, 
If  you  were  me  ? 
Sure,  I  do  love  Archie  Dean, 

Love  him,  love  him,  oh,  how  true  — 
But  just  see,  my  eyes  are  bright. 
And  my  lips  and  cheeks  are  red 
(Archie  put  that  in  my  head). 

And  I  don't  know  what  to  do  — 
Whether  to  lie  down  and  weep, 
Weep  and  weep,  weep  and  weep  — 

Till  the  red  is  faded  out. 
And  my  eyes  are  dull  and  dim, 
May  be  Mind,  and  all  for  him  — 

I  could  do  it,  I've  no  doubt  — 
Or  loop  up  my  jetty  hair 

With  the  brightest  knots  of  ribbon, 
And  the  very  sweetest  roses. 
And  go  to  the  village  fair, 

Where  he'll  be  with  Kitty  Carrol, 
And  will  see  me  dance  the  wildest 
And  will  hear  me  speak  the  mildest 
With  some  bonny  lad  that's  there, 
Jtist  to  show  him  all  I  care. 

Archie  Dean  !     Archie  Dean ! 
'Tis  the  prettiest  name  I  know  ; 
It  is  writ  on  my  heart,  but  over  it  now 
Is  drifting  the  cold,  cold  snow. 
Archie  Dean  !     Archie  Dean  I 


ARCHIE   DEAN  125 

There  is  pain  in  my  breast  while  I  speak  — 
I  wonder  if  always  the  thought  of  your  name 
Will  make  me  so  saddened  and  weak  ? 
Archie  Dean  !     Archie  Dean  ! 
I  remember  that  once  you  said 
Your  name  should  be  mine,  and  that  I  should  be 

The  happiest  bride  ever  wed. 
I  little  thought  then  of  a  day  like  this, 
When  I  could  wish  I  were  dead. 

Atlanta,  Ga.,  Jan.  27,  1878. 
To  ' '  Gail  Uamilton  "  : 

But  there  is  a  poem  of  yours,  a  merry  rhythmic  love-story, 
published  some  ten  years  ago  in  the  "Prairie  Farmer"  of  Chi- 
cago, entitled  "Archie  Dean."  I  was  a  boy  in  my  "teens" 
when  I  read  it,  and  gave  my  paper  containing  it  to  a  fair  girl 
who  might  have  sung  : 

"  But  just  see;  my  eyes  are  blue, 
And  my  lips  and  cheeks  are  red 
(Archie  put  that  in  my  head)." 

Now,  I  write  to  ask  you  for  a  copy  of  "  Archie  Dean,"  or  for 
information  as  to  how  I  can  obtain  it.  I  have  three  pretty 
little  imps  of  daughters  dancing  about  the  fireside  as  I  write, 
for  whom  I  wish  to  preserve  the  poem  as  a  charmingly  recited 
episode  in  the  days  of  courtship  of  a  sweet  coquette.  Your 
kind  attention  will  oblige 

Very  truly  yours, 

Sam'l  a.  E . 


126         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 


WHAT   YOU'D  BETTEE   DO,   JENNY    MARSH 


B 


REAK  your  heart  for  Archie  Dean, 
Jenny  Marsh,  Jenny  Marsh 

Break  your  heart  for  Archie  Dean, 
Not  a  bit ! 

'Tis  the  very  thing  he's  after ; 

He  woukl  say  to  Kitty  Carrol 

With  a  careless,  mocking  laughter  : 
Here's  a  pretty  little  chit 
Who  has  died  for  love  of  me. 
'Tis  a  pity. 

But  what  is  a  man  to  do 

When  the  girls  beset  him  so  ? 

If  he  gives  a  nosegay  here. 
If  he  calls  another  '  dear,' 
If  he  warbles  to  a  third 
A  love  ditty ; 

Why  the  darling  little  innocents 
They  take  it  all  to  heart. 
A-lack-a-day. 

Ah !  she  was  a  pretty  maiden, 

A  little  too  fond-hearted. 

Eyes  a  little  too  love-laden. 

But  —  really  —  when  we  parted 
Well  —  she  died  for  love  of  me  - 


WHAT   YOU'D  BETTER  DO,   JENNY   MARSH    127 

"  Kitty  Carrol."     Don't  you  see 

You  are  giving  him  to  Kitty 

Just  as  sure  as  sure  can  be  ? 

'Tis  the  way  he  takes  to  woo  her 
By  thus  slyly  showing  to  her 
What  a  dashing,  slashing  beau  is  at  her  feet ; 
And  for  all  the  pretty  prating 
Of  a  woman's  deathless  loving 
And  her  ever  faithful  proving 
And  her  true  and  tried  devotion, 
I've  a  very  wicked  notion 

That  to  carry  off  the  one 
Whom  Mary  here  is  sighing  for. 
And  Fanny  there  is  dying  for, 
Is  nearly  half  the  happiness  and  more  than  half 

the  fun ! 

Now,  if  I  were  a  man, 

Jenny  Marsh,  Jenny  Marsh, 
If  I  only  were  a  man 

For  a  day 
(I'm  a  woman  so  I  can't 
Always  do  just  what  I  want). 

But  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  say, 

"  Archie  Dean,  go  to  thunder ! 
What's  the  use  of  sighs,  I  wonder? 

Your  oaths  and  vows  and  mutterings 
Are  awfully  profane  ! 

Hie  away  to  Kitty  Carrol, 

Your  loss  is  but  a  gain. 


128         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

And  fishes  still  are  swimming 

Just  as  luscious  every  way 

As  those  that  hissed  and  sputtered 
In  the  saucepan  yesterday." 


But  Jenny,  darling  Jenny, 

You're  a  tender  little  woman. 
And  I  can't  expect  you'll  say  what  is 

So  shockingly  inhuman, 
And  besides  you'll  never  dare. 
You  little  witch,  to  swear. 
But  don't  you  dance  too  merrily, 

Because  he  mmj  see  through  it, 
And  don't  you  flirt  too  far,  my  dear. 

Because  perhaps  you'll  rue  it. 
And  don't  put  on  an  air  as  if 

You're  mortally  offended  — 
'Twill  be  a  feather  in  his  cap, 

And  then  the  game  is  ended ; 
And  when,  with  Kitty  on  his  arm. 

You  meet  him  on  the  green. 
Don't  agonize  your  pouting  lips 

To  "  Mr.  Arthur  Dean." 
But  every  throb  of  pride  or  love 

Be  very  sure  to  stifle 
As  if  your  intercourse  with  him 

Were  but  the  merest  trifle  ; 
And  make  believe  with  all  your  might 


WHAT   I   DID,    GAIL   HAMILTON  129 

You  do  not  care  a  feather 
For  all  thie  Carrols  in  the  world 

And  Archie  Deans  together. 
Take  this  advice  and  get  him  back, 

My  darling,  if  you  can. 
And  if  you  can't,  why  —  right  about, 

And  take  another  man  ! 

Hartford,  Conn.,  Oct.  25,  1856. 


[for  the  home  journal] 
WHAT   I   DID,   GAIL   HAMILTON 

By  Jenny  Marsh 

I  WENT  to  the  fair  with  Charlie  — 
With  handsome  Charlie  Green, 
Who  has  loved  but  me  for  many  a  year 
And  vowed  his  love  with  many  a  tear  — 
Ay,  tears  from  the  heart,  I  ween ; 
But  I  never  gave  a  smile  to  him 
Until  last  night 
When  full  in  sight 
Of  Kitty  Carrol  and  Archie  Dean. 
Now  Archie  knows  that  Charlie  has 

A  deal  of  money  and  land, 
And  that  his  wealth  is  little  to  him 
Without  my  heart  and  hand. 


130         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

So  I  smiled  on  Charlie, 
And  I  danced  with  Charlie, 
When  I  knew  that  Archie's  eyes 
Were  fixed  on  me  in  a  trance ; 
And  once  I  caught  them  in  the  dance ; 
And,  oh  !  the  language  of  that  glance  ! 
I  could  have  fallen  at  his  feet. 
Dear  Archie  Dean ! 
But  there  was  Kitty  and  Charlie  Green. 


And  when  Archie  came  to  me. 
As  I  was  sure  he  would. 
And  with  his  softest  tone  and  glance, 
Asked  me  then  with  him  to  dance, 
.  Do  you  think  I  dropped  my  eyes 
With  a  blushing  glad  surprise  ? 
No,  no,  indeed  ; 
That  wouldn't  do. 
Straight  I  looked  into  his  face, 
With  no  broken-hearted  grace  — 
Ah  !  he  could  not  see  my  pain  !  — 
And  I  told  him  he  must  wait 
A  little  while 
Till  I'd  danced  with  Charlie  Green, 

Then  I  made  a  smile. 
And  Harry  Hill  and  Tommy  Brown  j 

Oh !  the  look  he  gave  to  me. 
As  his  eyes  fell  sadly  down ! 


WHAT   I   DID,    GAIL   HAMILTON  131 

Twice  he  something  tried  to  say, 
But  I,  laughing,  turned  away  — 

For  my  sight  was  getting  dim  — 
Saying  I  would  not  forget 

That  I  was  to  dance  with  him. 

He  did  not  go  to  Kitty  Carrol, 

Who  was  sitting  all  alone, 
Watching  me  with  flaming  eyes  ; 

But  he  slowly  walked  away 
To  a  corner  in  the  dark 

Where  he  waited  patiently 

And,  he  said,  most  wearily, 
For  the  waltzing  to  be  done. 

And,  although  my  heart  was  aching  — 

Yes,  and  very  near  to  breaking, 
It  was  quite  a  bit  of  fun, 

Just  to  see  him  standing  there. 
Watching  me ;  —  oh,  Archie  Dean  ! 
What  a  picture  of  despair ! 

Why  not  hie  to  Kitty  Carrol  ? 
She  has  money  —  so  they  say  — 
And  has  held  it  out  for  lovers. 

Many  and  many  a  weary  day. 
She  is  rather  plain,  I  know  : 

Crooked  nose,  and  reddish  hair. 

And  her  years  are  more  than  yours. 
But  Archie  Dean  !  —  poor  Archie  Dean  ! 
You're  not  rich  like  Charlie  Green. 


132         CHIPS,  FEAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

And  what  does  love  for  beauty  care  ? 
Hie  away  to  Kitty  Carrol ! 

Ask  her  out  to  dance  with  you, 
Or  she'll  think  that  you  are  fickle, 

And  your  vows  of  love  untriie  ; 
And,  may  be,  you'll  get  a  mitten,  — 

Then,  oh  then,  what  would  you  do  ? 

Well,  he  sighed  at  me,  and  I  laughed  at  him. 

When  we  danced  away  together ; 
He  pressed  my  hand,  but  I  heeded  it  not. 

And  whirled  off  like  a  feather. 
He  whispered  something  about  the  past 

That  I  did  not  hear  at  all  — 
For  my  heart  was  throbbing  loud  and  fast, 
And  the  tears  began  to  fall. 

He  led  me  out  beneath  the  stars  ; 

I  told  him  it  was  vain 
For  him  to  vow :  I  had  no  faith 
To  bind  with  him  again. 
His  voice  was  sad,  and  thrilling,  and  deep. 
And  my  pride  flew  away,  and  left  me  to  weep. 
And  then  when  he  said  that  he  loved  me  most  true, 
And  ever  should  love  me  —  "  yes,  love  onl]/  you," 
I  couldn't  help  trusting  dear  Archie  —  could  you  ? 


ON  THE  SIDEWALK  133 


ON   THE   SIDEWALK 


N  the  sidewalk  dim  and  dusty 

Ceaseless  tread  of  hurrying  feet, 
Pleasure,  passion,  pain,  and  madness 

Stalking  up  and  down  the  street. 
How  the  golden  stars  were  burning, 

Throbbing,  glowing  in  the  sky  — 
How  the  earth  lay  calm  and  holy 

In  the  glory  from  on  high, 
As  we  walked  among  the  walkers, 

Slowly  walking  —  you  and  I. 


But  the  stars  serene  and  shining, 

And  the  moonlight  clear  and  cold. 
And  the  throng  forever  pressing 

After  wisdom,  wine,  and  gold. 
Drew  no  meaning  —  read  no  token, 

Could  not  know  the  secret  power 
Of  the  words  we  lightly  uttered 

In  that  unforgotten  hour. 
Lightly  spoken,  lightly  spoken. 

Oh  !  the  heavy  hearts  they  made, 
0  the  spell  yet,  yet  unbroken. 

Which  upon  our  souls  they  laid. 


134         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

0  the  sudden  silent  anguish, 

Cleaving  heart  and  soul  and  life, 
0  the  terrible  concealing 

Outward  sign  of  inward  strife. 
Bootless,  fruitless,  vain  concealing 

That  the  light  of  life  was  gone. 

Memories  of  the  buried  Past 

Only,  left  to  live  upon. 
Bootless,  fruitless,  vain  concealing, 

Aimless,  hopeless,  w^ild  endeavor, 
For  a  chord  of  life  was  smitten 

That  will  tremble  on  forever. 

You  will  go  your  way  in  life  — 

I  shall  calmly  walk  in  mine  — 
Of  the  blight  upon  my  spirit 

There  shall  be  no  trace  nor  sign. 
While  I  tread  this  vale  of  shadows. 

Be  the  way  or  short  or  long. 
Smiles  shall  dwell  upon  my  forehead. 

Cheerful  words  upon  my  tongue, 
And  I  have  a  cooling  balsam. 

For  the  burning  in  my  brain, 
We  are  bound  now  and  forever 

Each  to  each  by  common  pain  ; 
For  you  felt  my  heart  was  breaking. 

For  I  read  your  voiceless  woe. 
Though  we  neither  breathed  a  whisper 

That  could  tell  the  other  so. 


O  LAND  BEYOND  THE  SOUNDING  SEA   135 

Life  is  short  and  love  eternal, 

And  we  both  shall  stronger  be  — 
For  the  bitter,  bitter  chalice 

That  is  poured  to  you  and  me  — 
Gather  now  thy  robes  about  thee. 

Take  thy  pilgrim  staff  in  hand. 
Look  not  backward,  travel  onward 

To  the  future  better  land  ; 
Heave  no  sigh  in  vain  regretting, 

Thinking  of  what  might  have  been. 
It  will  be  thy  soul's  ensnaring, 
He  must  run  who  hopes  to  win. 
In  the  day  of  life's  declining, 

When  the  lengthening  shadows  fall, 
Looking  back  on  all  our  pathway, 

We  will  bless  the  Lord  for  all. 

0  LAND  BEYOND   THE  SOUNDING  SEA 

[  "  He  was  born  in  London,  but  came  when  a  child 
to  Ohio,  where  he  was  educated.  He  at  first  said  that 
he  remembered  nothing  at  all  of  England,  but  after- 
wards asked,  'Aren't  there  little  flowers  that  grow 
along  by  the  fences  in  England  that  they  call  cups  ? ' 
<  Butter-cups  —  yes.'  'And  another  little  flower  in  the 
fences  that  smells  very  nice  —  haws  ;  is  it  ?  —  and 
another  in  the  grass.'  *  Primroses,'  I  suggested.  *  Ah, 
yes,  that's  it  —  cups  and  primroses.  I  thought  I  was 
in   England ;    there  wan't  no  such   in  Ohio.     I   can 


136         CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

remember  going  out  with  my  mother  into  the  country 
and  picking  them.  That's  the  only  thing  I  can  re- 
member in  England.-' "  ] 

LAND  beyond  the  sounding  sea, 

0  Queen  enthroned  in  glory, 
0  Mother  of  a  mighty  race. 

Renowned  in  song  and  story  — 
Rich  in  memorials  of  the  past, 

In  promise  of  the  future, 
Linked  by  the  great  acts  of  to-day. 

In  not  unworthy  suture  — 
Rich  in  all  deeds  of  deathless  fame 

That  show  divine  in  human. 
Rich  in  the  life  of  noble  man. 

And  of  heroic  woman. 
Rich  in  that  love  by  Jesus  taught, 

AVhich  maketh  all  men  brothers. 
Rich  in  each  gift  that  God  bestows, 

But  passing  rich  in  mothers. 

From  Canterbury's  old  renown. 

From  "Windsor's  quiet  meadows. 
From  "  Silver  Avon's  "  holy  ground. 

From  Cheviot's  purple  shadows, 
Thy  children  pass  to  every  land 

On  which  the  sun  is  shining, 
The  sturdy  zeal  of  Saxon  nerve, 

With  tropic  fire  combining ; 


O  LAND   BEYOND   THE  SOUNDING  SEA      137 

But  still  wherever  English  hand, 

To  English  hand  gives  greeting, 
Wherever  in  the  English  breast 

An  English  heart  is  beating, 
Sweet  memories  of  the  mother  land 

Will  come  like  guests  unbidden, 
Beneath  the  gathering  moss  of  time, 

Revealing  fountains  hidden. 
Sweet  memories  —  not  of  moated  tower. 

Or  wild  castle  hoary, 
Of  princely  Hampton's  pictured  halls. 

Or  Hastings'  doubtful  glory. 
But  of  the  primrose  by  the  brook, 

The  daisy  in  the  meadow. 
The  buttercups  on  dimpled  chins. 

Which  cast  a  golden  ghadow, 
Of  emerald  turf  with  violets  flecked, 

His  young  feet  crushed  unheeding. 
As  pattered  they  along  the  way, 

A  mother's  hand  was  leading. 

Brown  locks  may  whiten  on  the  brow. 

Bright  eyes  be  dim  with  weeping. 
The  child  grown  old,  the  mother  cold, 

Beneath  the  daisy  sleeping  ; 
But  still  when  he  who  holds  the  key 

Of  memory's  mystic  portal. 
Shall  for  a  space  unbar  the  gates 

To  show  the  soul  immortal, 


138  CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

Though  Arctic  snows  or  Afric  sands 
Stretch  drearily  before  him, 

The  fragrant  gales  of  English  vales 
Will  breathe  their  sweetness  o'er  him. 

0  Mother's  hand,  0  mother's  heart, 

Ye  work  a  wondrous  mission, 
Ye  smite  a  harp  whose  thrill  perchance 

Is  hidden  from  your  vision  ; 
Yet  touch  it  lightly,  for  the  chords 

Will  cease  their  trembling  never, 
But  stretching  through  the  mists  of  time 

Go  quivering  on  forever. 

Feb.  8,  1857. 


TO  ELLEN  AUGUSTA  HUNT  IN  ALABAMA 


T 


HE  balmy  airs  of  the  South  Land 
Are  stirring  the  locks  on  thy  brow. 

The  perfumed  scent  of  her  orange  groves 
Meet  fragrance  for  such  as  thou. 

Hath  the  sunny  South  Land  a  charm,  Nelly, 

To  lure  thy  longer  stay. 
From  her  velvet  turf  and  magnolia  breath 

Dost  thou  shrink  to  turn  away  ? 


TO  ELLEN  AUGUSTA  HUNT  IN  ALABAMA      139 

Our  skies  are  leaden  and  gray,  Ellen, 

Our  winds  are  fierce  and  wild, 
And  ghostly  and  cold  are  the  mountain  snows. 

Which  they  in  their  fury  piled. 

But  the  hearts  are  warm  and  true,  Nelly, 

That  are  beating  in  love  for  thee. 
That  are  keeping  time  to  thy  morning  song, 

Wherever  its  warblings  be. 

And  the  void  which  thy  going  left,  Nelly, 

On  that  chill  November  morn. 
Is  a  void  to-day  and  to-night,  my  love. 

The  merry-voiced  Spring  is  born. 

A  light  went  out  on  the  hearthstone, 

A  tint  from  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
A  tone  from  the  voice  of  singing 

Full  only  when  you  were  by. 

A  sense  of  what  might  but  is  not, 

A  dreamy  and  vague  unrest, 
A  longing,  and  waiting,  and  watching, 

These  were  thy  parting  behest. 

But  our  hills  shall  be  crowned  with  greenness, 

Our  roses  shall  flush  in  the  sun, 
Come  home,  come  home,  O,  fairer  than  they. 

That  the  Spring  be  indeed  begun. 


140         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,  AND  VESTIGES 


R 


DR.    KANE 

EEJOICE,  rejoice  ! 

Put  on,  0  Earth,  thy  glory-robe  and  raise 

Aloud  thy  voice, 
And  bind  thy  brow  with  everlasting  bays. 


No  more,  no  more 
The  age  shall  be  accounted  mean  and  base 

And  given  o'er 
To  greed  of  gold  and  lust  of  power  and  place. 

Defiant  now, 
She  calls  the  heroes  of  the  vaunted  Past, 

And  bids  them  bow 
In  homage  to  the  greatest  and  the  last 

When  fair  young  Greece 
Sent  from  her  bosom  an  adventurous  band, 

A  golden  fleece 
Allured  their  footsteps  to  a  far-off  land. 

In  later  days 
Men  tracked  a  path  upon  the  unknown  sea 

For  love  of  praise, 
Or  fame  of  boundless  wealth  that  was  to  be. 


DR.   KANE  141 

Not  so  he  went, 
Who  hath  returned  so  pale  and  still  to-day. 

With  high  intent 
He  parted  on  his  dread  and  devious  way 

The  lost  to  save  — 
To  bring  back  light  to  many  a  darkened  hearth, 

And  from  the  grave 
Lead  forth  the  wanderer  to  a  genial  earth. 

Not  as  of  old. 
Weak  flesh  and  blood  and  gleaming  steel  his  foes, 

But  subtle  Cold, 
And  the  grim  Ghosts  of  the  Eternal  Snows. 

Pale,  shadowy  forms 
Loomed  in  the  darkness,  but  they  gave  no  sound. 

Spirits  of  Storms 
Wandering  in  silence  awful  and  profound. 

With  these  he  fought, 
He  of  the  Christ-like  heart  and  God-like  soul, 

Nor  failed  in  aught. 
But  bent  the  storm-wraiths  to  his  own  control. 

Ah  !  must  it  be  ? 
The  incense  kindled  from  God's  altar  fire 

Wo  —  wo  is  me  ! 
Consumed  the  censer  as  it  mounted  higher. 


142  CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

And  yet  no  tears. 
To-day  with  prouder  tread  we  press  the  earth, 

And  bless  the  years, 
The  living  age  that  gave  a  hero  birth. 

For  him  no  tears  — 
Although,  alas  !  too  soon  to  dust  gone  down, 

Yet  his  young  years 
Have  wreathed  him  with  an  amaranthine  crown. 

But  tears  for  those 
Within  whose  home  the  light  is  waxen  dim, 

Who  till  life's  close 
Will  twine  the  cypress  with  the  bay  for  him. 

It  needs  must  be, 
O  mother,  that  thy  feet  shall  sorrowing  go, 

Thou  who  didst  see 
Life's  earliest  ebb  and  last  retreating  flow, 

Yet  doubly  blest. 
With  all  its  speechless  grief  and  anguish  rife. 

The  mother's  breast 
That  pillowed  him  at  mom  and  even  of  life. 

We  pray  that  He, 
Who  crowned  with  joy  the  stricken  one  of  Nain 

May  pour  for  thee 
The  wine  of  peace  within  thy  cup  of  pain. 

Makch  2,  1857. 


THE  NOSIAD  143 

THE   NOSIAD 

An  Epic  Poem 

EMILIA,  my  dear,  and  the  kerchief  committee, 
Come  gather  around  while  I  sing  you  a  ditty ; 
Not   of    some    lonely   Chloe   who   died   broken- 
hearted, 
Because  from  her  side  cruel  Colin  departed, 
For  I  think,  my  dear  girls,  'tis  a  very  poor  course 
To  mend  a  bad  matter  by  making  it  worse, 
And  if  a  young  damsel  is  left  by  her  wooer, 
I  cannot  imagine  what  good  it  can  do  her. 
And  what  the  particular  pleasure  'twill  give  her 
To  throw  herself  hastily  into  a  river  — 
Nor  prate  I  of  freedom,  that  much  abused  article, 
Bepraised  by  all  striplings  endowed  with  a  particle 
Of  that  indescribable  gift  of  Queen  Mab, 
Which  the  vulgar  denominate  "  gift  o'  the  gab," 
For  though  we  are  truly  the  great  "  Yankee  "  nation, 
And  abundantly  able  to  "  whip  "  all  creation. 
We've  just  now  small  reason  for  congratulation. 
For  our  President  true,  I've  sufficient  affection, 
But  Heaven  forbid  /  should  sing  his  election 
My  own  Massachusetts  meant  not  he  should  have,  he 

knew. 
The  White  House  that   stands  "  at  the  end  of  the 

avenue." 
Were  the  Pathfinder  there  with  his  garland  of  glory, 
I  would  sing  you  a  roundelay,  child,  con  amore  — 


144         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

And  though  he  is  not,  we  rejoice  that  no  less  he 

Deserves  it  and  more  with  his  beautiful  Jessie. 

So  we'll  meet  every  foe,  should  insulting  bemoan  he 

us, 
With   the   truth  wherewith  Cato   once   strengthened 

Sempronius  ; 
But  ask  not  a  Freedom  song  when  you  remember 
I  hung  up  my  harp  on  the  Fourth  of  November. 
And  now,  O  committee,  for  fear  you  should  say 
I  spin  out  my  song  in  a  very  strange  way. 
By  telling  you  each  insignificant  thing, 
About  which  my  mind  is  made  up  not  to  sing,  — 
Reminding  you  thus  of  the  mountain  and  mouse  — 
Or  a  very  large  hall  to  a  very  small  house, 
I'll  tell  you  at  once  ere  I  come  to  the  close. 
The  theme  of  my  lay  is  —  myself  and  my  nose. 

A  long  time  ago  in  a  domicile  lone 

Within  sound  of  the  ocean's  unceasing  moan, 

Where  the  skies  were  bluer  than  smile  on  me  now. 

And  the  winds  were  fiercer  than  breathe  on  my  brow, 

And  wilder  and  bleaker  the  mountain  snows, 

We  came  into  being  —  myself  and  my  nose. 

How  well  I  remember  the  fateful  day  — 

How  quiet,  observant,  and  peaceful  I  lay 

Till  I  heard  the  words  of  my  cruel  nurse, 

"  She  is  certainly  ugly,  but  might  have  been  worse." 

Nay,  before  I  had  entered  my  very  first  doze. 

My  father  exclaimed,  "  Do  but  look  at  her  nose." 


THE  NOSIAD  146 

With  a  fierceness  of  fury  'twere  hard  to  tell, 
I  doubled  my  fists  and  I  uttered  a  yell, 
Piercing,  sonorous,  prolonged,  and  clear, 
A  yell  'twould  be  worth  your  while  to  hear. 
Whereat  the  nurse  and  my  father  and  mother. 
Gazed  in  amazement  on  one  another. 
Till  the  former  with  greater  acumen  smiled. 
And  nodded  and  said,  "  a  remarkable  child." 
So  I  was  appeased  and  at  once  shrunk  back 
Into  the  proper  juvenile  track. 

The  old  woman  indeed  had  spoken  the  truth. 

For  I  was  a  very  remarkable  youth, 

But  unlike  most  of  those  who  give  signs  of  precocity, 

I  did  not  expire  with  good-natured  velocity. 

But  persistently  managed  to  grow  and  to  thrive 

As  well  as  the  veriest  dunce  alive  — 

A  remarkable  fact  of  itself,  I  must  say, 

Considering  the  perfectly  orthodox  way 

In  which  doses  of  oil  and  bark  and  root 

Were  crammed  unconcernedly  down  my  throat. 

As  if  a  poor  baby  with  scarcely  a  rag  on 

Were  a  modified  species  of  wantley  dragon. 

Nevertheless  I  grew  apace 

In  strength  and  endurance  if  not  in  grace  — 

And  I  and  my  nose  went  peering  around 

In  search  of  whatever  there  was  to  be  found  — 

Over  mountain  and  valley  sans  sun-shade  and  bonnet, 

(]S"o  persuasion  could  ever  induce  me  to  don  it). 


146         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

I  roamed  at  my  will  while  my  poor  mother  cried, 

As  my  peregrinations  she  wistfully  eyed, 

"  My  child,  you  will  turn  your  adventurous  nose 

As  black  as  the  African  Scipios." 

I  chased  all  the  girls  and  I  fought  all  their  brothers. 

And  sent  them  bewailing,  soon,  home  to  their  mothers, 

Till,  in  a  full  circuit  of  twenty  miles  round 

There  was  not  a  single  brave  lad  to  be  found 

That  was  hardy  enough  to  resist  my  appeals, 

But  at  sight  of  my  nose  forthwith  took  to  his  heels  — 

(I  mention  with  feelings  of  deepest  regret 

'Tis  a  habit  they've  never  recovered  from  yet ! ) 

But  as  I  grew  up  into  woman's  estate 

My  carelessness  waned  and  my  sorrow  waxed  great  — 

A  sense  of  my  ugliness  broke  my  repose  — 

And  I  bitterly  mourned  my  unfortunate  nose. 

All  my  friends  stood  aghast  at  my  heart-rending  grief 

And  strove  by  afPection  to  bring  me  relief, 

But  with  mutual  gloom  did  each  interview  close, 

While  I  only  exclaimed,  "  0  my  nose,  my  poor  nose  ! " 

At  length,  a  sad,  heart-broken  exile,  from  home 
As  my  only  resort  I  concluded  to  roam  — 
As  if  any  road  which  a  traveller  goes 
Can  lead  him  away  from  a  terrible  nose ! 

"  My  child,"  said  my  father,  "  'tis  foolish  in  you, 
For  wherever  you  go,  there  your  nose  must  go  too  — 


THE   NOSIAD  147 

You  have  not  a  doubt  of  the  fact,  I  suppose, 
That  a  girl  must  assuredly  follow  her  nose." 

But  in  vain  —  I  departed  —  I  came  to  your  city 

And  presented  myself,  a  meet  object  for  pity. 

I  came  and  you  saw  and  have  conquered,  my  friends, 

See  how  a  divinity  shapeth  our  ends  — 

For  though  I  am  certain  you  all  will  agree 

'Tis  the  ugliest  nose  that  you  ever  did  see, 

Yet  a  nose,  I  am  equally  sure  you  will  say, 

Whether  aquiline,  Roman,  or  retrousse, 

A  nose  turned  up  or  a  nose  turned  down  — 

A  nose  all  freckled  or  wholly  brown  — 

A  nose  too  large  or  a  nose  too  small, 

Is  a  thousand  times  better  than  no  nose  at  all ; 

At  least,  so  I  judge  from  the  cheerful  celerity 

With  which  you  engaged  in  your  late  work  of  charity. 

For  you  see  that  your  ready  and  active  decision 

In  making  such  very  abundant  provision 

For  an  organ,  whose  wants,  although  innocent  quite. 

Must  never  be  mentioned  to  ears  polite. 

In  a  manner  that  cannot  be  gainsaid  discloses 

You  approve  not  the  counsel  of  Aaron  to  Moses 

Suggesting  a  decapitation  of  noses. 

Your  labor,  my  loved  ones,  is  not  in  vain. 
In  word  or  in  thought  I  will  never  complain. 
Nay,  if  there  should  chance  to  spring  up  a  thought, 
A  wish  that  my  nose  might  be  what  it  is  not. 


148         CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

I'll  remember  that  nose  is  a  sign  and  a  token 

Of  a  friendship  for  you  which  shall  never  be  broken  — 

Of  a  depth  of  affection  no  words  can  tell  — 

So  dearest  and  sweetest,  farewell,  farewell. 

P.S.  —  I  meant  to  stop  there,  but  never  a  word 

Ventured  upon  by  a  singing  bird, 

Ranted  by  actor,  or  stammered  by  mimic 

Can  be  found  to  rhyme  with  my  patronymic ; 

But  though  'tis  a  very  prosaic  name 

'Twill  likely  enough  long  continue  the  same  — 

And  our  mothers  have  told  us  what  cannot  be  cured 

With  great  resignation  must  be  endured  -— . 

So  I'll  be  content  with  a  sensible  rhyme, 

Though  in  truth  it  has  but  an  unmusical  chime  — 

And  say  I  remain  wherever  I  lodge 

Your  very  afEectionate  Dominie  Dodge. 


THE   PURSUIT   OF  KNOWLEDGE   UNDER 
DIFFICULTIES   OR:  WHO   I    AM 

RESPECTFULLY     INSCRIBED      TO     "  X.    Y.     Z.,"     WITH     A 
GLAKCE    REMINISCENT    AT    E.    F.    G. 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Well  begun ! 
Nothing  like  having  a  bit  of  fun. 
If  I  understand  you  the  question  is  this. 
Am  I  a  Mr.  or  Mrs.  or  Miss  ? 


WHO   I   AM  149 

A  man  or  a  woman, 
A  Ghoul  or  a  human,  — 
Pray  tell  me  the  good  such  a  knowledge  can  do  man, 
Or  whatever  can  make  it  a  circumstance  weighty. 
To  know  where  I  stand  between  eighteen  and  eighty ; 
Or  whether  I  chance  to  be  single  or  double ; 
But,  nevertheless,  as  you  've  taken  the  trouble, 
And  as  I  don't  wish  to  be  wrapped  up  in  mystery, 
I  think  I  will  give  you  a  leaf  of  my  history. 


I'm  a  college  student  of  seventeen, 

With  a  scarcely  perceptible  shade  of  green ; 

Three  terrible  pairs  of  rickety  stairs, 

I  tumble  down  daily  to  morning  prayers ; 

I  twirl  my  cane  with  a  matchless  grace, 

And  if  you  should  happen  to  look  in  my  face, 

When  the  morning  light 

Falls  on  it  aright. 
You  will  catch,  I  am  certain,  a  very  fair  sight 
Of  what  I  should  call,  and  I  hope  I'm  not  rash, 
The  first  faint  dawn  of  a  young  moustache  ; 

I  would  also  say 

In  a  modest  way, 

I've  a  generous  share 

Enough  and  to  spare. 
Of  that  indescribable  gift  so  rare, 
And  when  I  hold  forth  in  my  musical  tones 
Before  the  redoubtable  "  Skull  and  Bones," 


160         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

You  would  never  know 

But  'twas  Cicero, 
Unless  somebody  happened  to  tell  you  so. 

With  the  girls  of  the  land 

I'm  in  great  demand, 

And  a  sudden  meeting. 

Some  crowded  street  in. 
Gives  rise  to  a  very  affectionate  greeting. 

I  moreover  can  show. 

Let  me  whisper  it  low. 
Five  pictures  of  five  graceful  nymphs  in  a  row. 
The  first  has  bushels  of  raven  curls, 
The  next  is  the  very  queen  of  girls. 

The  third  is  fair 

With  auburn  hair. 
The  fourth  has  a  very  distingue  air, 
The  fifth  has  —  something,  precisely  what 
I  cannot  say,  for  I've  quite  forgot, 
Though  many  days  with  my  watch  for  a  locket, 
I  tenderly  bore  in  the  depths  of  my  pocket 
A  bit  of  the  ribbon  that  bound  her  locks, 
Now  lying,  alas  !  in  my  relic  box. 
I  hope  the  young  lady  won't  go  break  her  heart, 
Because  I  was  so  ready  from  her  memento  to  part. 

But  to  sum  up  the  whole, 

I  have  thought  on  my  soul 

Since  thus  I  began 

My  features  to  scan, 
I'm  a  very  uncommonly  nice  young  man. 


WHO   I  AM  161 

Pray  what  say  you  —  this  description  you  see  — 
My  investigator  "  X.  Y.  Z." 

Peccavi,  peccavi ;  to  soften  my  pillow 

I  humbly  confess  to  a  peccadillo  — 

Very  different  proves  the  real  denouement, 

For  I'm  not  in  the  least  a  college  student, 

No  enamored  swain  nor  ranting  debater. 

But  a  docile  and  dutiful  Alma  Mater. 

Rugged  and  thorny  the  path  I  have  trod, 

A  married  lady  of  thirty  odd ; 

Every  evening  I  see  in  their  beds 

A  baker's  dozen  of  curly  heads  ; 

Every  morning  my  slumbers  greet 

The  patter,  patter,  patter  of  twenty-six  feet. 

Thirteen  little  hearts  are  always  in  a  flutter, 

Till  thirteen  little  mouths  are  filled  with  bread  and 

butter ; 
Thirteen  little  tongues  are  busy  all  day  long, 
And  thirteen  little  hands  with  doing  something  wrong, 
Till  I  fain  am  to  do 
With  an  energy  too, 
As  did  the  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe ; 
And  when  my   poor  husband  comes  home  from  his 

work, 
Tired  and  hungry  and  fierce  as  a  Turk, 
What  do  you  think  is  the  picture  he  sees  ? 
A  legion  of  babies  all  in  a  breeze. 


152         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Johnny  arcrying 
And  Mary  a-sighing, 
And  dignified  me  with  my  hair  all  a-flying ; 
William  strong  and  angry  beating  little  Xelly, 
Charley  in  the  pantry  eating  currant  jelly  ; 
Richard  strutting  round  in  papa's  Sunday  coat, 
Bobby  at  the  glass  with  a  razor  at  his  throat, 
Harry  gets  his  fingers  crushed  when  Susie  shuts  the 

door, 
Mitigates  their  aching  with  a  forty-pounder  roar ; 
Baby  at  the  coal-hod  hurries  to  begin 
Throwing  in  his  mite  to  the  universal  din. 
Alas !    my   lord    and    master   being   rather  weak   of 

nerve,  he 
Begins  to  lose  his  patience  in  this  stunning  topsy 

turvy, 
And  then  the  frightened  little  ones  all  fly  to  me  for 

shelter. 
And  so  the  drama  closes  'mid  a  general  helter-skelter. 
I'll  give  you  my  name  lest  you  think  me  a  myth, 
Yours  very  respectably,  Mrs.  John  Smith ! 


A  VALEDICTORY  163 

A  VALEDICTORY 

WITH  joy,  dear  parents  and  good  friends,  with 
joy  and  yet  with  fear, 
We've  long  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  we 
should  meet  you  here  — 

With  joy,  to  see  in  this  our  room  your   faces  ever 
kind  — 

With  fear  lest   you  should  find  us  not  all  you  had 
hoped  to  find. 

But  pray,  remember  when  you  judge,  how  few  our 
years  have  been ; 

The  summers  on  our  wisest  heads  have  scarcely  num- 
bered ten. 

We  left,  not  many  months  ago,  each  one  his  mother's 
side; 

And  even  now  our  leading  strings  are  loosened  —  not 
untied  ! 

But  don't  you  know  that  Solomon,  with  all  his  won- 
drous might, 

Was  once  a  baby,  knowing  not  his  left  hand  from  his 
right  ? 

That  Moses  cried  to  get  the  moon,  Napoleon  wore  a 
bib. 

And   Frank  Pierce    rode    a   broom-stick,  and   slept 
within  a  crib  ? 

So,  ever  in  your  ears,  we  hope  the  scripture  adage 
rings, 

However  wise,  not  to  despise  the  day  of  little  things. 


154         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

And  though  to  you  but  very  small  may  seem  our 

learned  lore, 
Remember  we  have  done  our  best,  and  "  angels  could 

no  more." 
We've  washed    our  faces  very  clean,  we've  brushed 

the  wayward  hair, 
And  smoothed  our  frocks  and  collars  down  with  most 

surprising  care. 
Not  for  the  world  our  pretty  fans  or  kerchiefs  would 

we  lose. 
And  if  you'd  see  a  handsome  face  just  look  at  our  new 

shoes. 
Now  though  we  don't  suppose  we  are  the  best  in  all 

the  city. 
Yet  don't  you  think  we're  pretty  fair,  most  reverend 

committee  ? 
Your  approbation,  sirs,  we  hope  to  gain  in  some  small 

measure, 
Th'  approving  voice  of  such  a  judge  would  crown  our 

toil  with  pleasure. 
But  if  you've  seen,  as  needs  must  be,  aught  you  can- 
not commend. 
We  surely  will  receive  your  blame  as  from  a  long- 
tried  friend. 
We  thank  you,  sirs,  for  all  your  care  and  pray  that 

you  may  be 
Long  spared  unto  our  little  school  though  we're  not 

here  to  see. 


A  VALEDICTORY  155 

Dear  teacher,  who,  for  months  and  weeks,  hast  guided 

us  so  well, 
To  your  own  heart  our  hearts  shall  speak  what  words 

can  never  tell ; 
Your  patience  never  failed  in  all  our  listless,  naughty 

ways  — 
The  bad  have  met  a  firm  rebuke — the  good  unstinted 

praise. 
The   consciousness    of   duty  done,   a   just  reward  is 

given  — 
Be  every  other  blessing  showered  upon  you  from  high 

Heaven. 

Whene'er  we  fear  the  world  will  scorn  our  learning 

and  our  arts, 
We  turn  with  confidence  to  you,  0  throhhing  mothers' 

hearts  ! 
The  love  that  taught  our  baby  lips  and  led  our  baby 

feet 
Will  never  fail  our  weak  essays  with  cheering  smiles 

to  greet. 
We  mean  to  answer  all  your  hopes  and  disappoint 

your  fears. 
And  grow  more  good  and  truly  wise  as  we  increase  in 

years. 

Dear  school-mates,  who  have  met  us  here  —  who'll 

meet  us  nevermore. 
No  coming  scenes  will  e'er  blot  out  the  happy  scenes 

of  yore. 


156         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Your  pleasant  faces  we  shall  miss  from  out  our  little 

band; 
We  love  you,  and  we  bless  you  as  we  give  the  parting 

hand.  ■• 

To  you,  who,  with  the  autumn  daj's,  again  shall  cheer 

our  sight, 
We  will  not  say  the  sad  "  Good-bye,"  but  only  breathe 

"  Good-night." 
We  hope  the  bright  vacation  days  will  find  you  with 

the  flowers ; 
That  by  the  brooks  and  o'er  the  hills,  you'll  chase  the 

flying  hours ; 
Go !  bring  back  scores  of  rosy  cheeks  and  scores  of 

sparkling  eyes, 
And  worlds-full  of  heart  happiness,  that  never,  never 

dies. 
May  health  and  hope  and  peace  and  love  forever  with 

you  dwell, 
And  now,  dear  teacher,  parents,  friends,  we  bid  you 

all  farewell. 

SUHMEH,  1857. 


TO  MR.   OWEN  157 


TO   DR.    MURDOCK 


IF,  as  the  homeopath  ists  say, 
Like  only  by  like  can  be  healed, 
The  mystery  hid  in  my  birthday  gift 
Will  easily  be  revealed ; 
For  as  Eve  by  this  fruit  caused  herself  and  the  race 

Forever  with  sorrow  to  grapple. 
So  I  would  that  all  sorrow  from  you  and  from  yours 
Might  forever  depart  by  an  apple. 

Fob  — Dec.  8,  1857. 


TO   MR.    OWEN 

YOUR  excellent  watch,  my  excellent  friend, 
I  restore  to  your  fatherly  hands, 
And  with  it  I  pray  you  receive  all  the  thanks 
So  gracious  a  token  demands. 
To  atone  for  the  sorrow  its  absence  hath  caused, 

I  am  sure  it  will  please  you  to  know, 
With  eloquent  lips,  it  hath  pleaded  your  case, 

And  taught  me  to  feel  for  your  woe. 
For  if  I  have  grown  pale  through  my  anxious  care. 

Of  a  property  not  my  own, 
And  most  truly  rejoice  in  three  days  to  give  back 
The  beautiful,  troublesome  loan  — 


158         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

What  grief  must  be  yours  with  your  vast  estate, 
And  your  sensitive  conscience,  knowing 

That  although  you  pay  up  every  cent  on  your  hands, 
You  never  can  cease  to  be  Owen. 


TO   ME.    SMITH 

nY  dear  Mr.  Smith,  could  you  now  for  a  minute 
Lay  aside,  not  your  head,  but  the  thoughts 
that  are  in  it ; 
Forget  all  your  saddles  and  bridles  and  straps, 
And  open  your  heart  to  a  woman's  mishaps. 

'Tis  about  a  poor  damsel  who  lives  in  this  city, 
And  a  gentleman  called  a  financial  committee. 
I  mention  no  names ;  don't  ask  me  the  cause  on't. 
Hers   might   have   been   Bodge,  my  dear  sir,  but   it 
wasn't. 

Well,  this  poor   little  damsel   had  spent   her  young 

years, 
Smiled  heavens  of  smiles  and  wept  oceans  of  tears, 
In  a  certain  brick  school-house  full  three  stories  high, 
Set  under  this  very  committee  man's  eye. 
All  the  work  she  accomplished  'twould  tire  you  to  tell. 
But  considering  all  things,  'twas  done  very  well, 
Since  teaching  is  not,  Sir,  a  thing  to  delight  in, 
But  a  very  odd  compound  of  scolding  and  fighting. 


TO   MR.   SMITH  159 

For  although  good  old  Moses  at  half  a  glance  saw 
'Twas  a  very  hard  thing  to  make  bricks  without  straw, 
Fond  parents  now  give  a  —  rhetorical  —  kick, 
If  every  small  boy  does  not  turn  out  —  "A  brick !  " 

One  day  this  committee  man  came  to  the  maiden, 
With  a  bursting  big  pocket-book  heavily  laden ; 
Now  this  unwonted  sight  made  her  feel  very  funny, 
For  she  knew  he  was  going  to  give  her  some  money. 
Though  you  see  so  uncommonly  hard  were  the  times. 
There  was  very  small  traffic  in  dollars  and  dimes. 
Every  bank  was  as  poor  as  were  Peter  and  John, 
And  the  cashiers  said,  "  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none." 
So  the  damsel  aforesaid  was  only  too  glad 
To  take  for  her  pay  of  the  best  that  he  had, 
Though  it  must  be  confessed  that  her  heart  somewhat 

sank 
When  she  saw  they  were  bills  on  the  Charter  Oak 

Bank  — 
And  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  would  much  rather  hold 
The  Phoenix  Bank  bills  if  I  cannot  have  gold. 
For  although  that  will  surely  go  down  in  these  crashes 
Another  as  good  will  arise  from  its  ashes. 
But  this  Charter  Oak  —  I  have  certainly  heard  — 
But  dear  me,  there's  no  use  in  my  saying  a  word. 
For  he  stands  there  so  large  and  so  stout  and  so  tall 
He  could  crush  me  as  easy  as  nothing  at  all." 

Well,  when  he  had  paid  hec  the  money  he  said. 
With  a  very  confirmative  shake  of  the  head, 


160         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

"  You  would  better  get  rid  of  that  money,  my  friend, 
For  there's  reason  to  fear  that  the  bank  will  suspend. 
I  advise  you  to  do  it  now  —  mind  what  I  say  — 
In  such  times  as  these,  we're  not  safe  for  a  day." 
The  girl  was  much  pleased  with  this  friendly  advice, 
And  a  part  of  her  money  went  off  in  a  trice  ; 
She  bought  many  things  that  she  thought  she  should 

need. 
And  some  that  she  shouldn't  to  wear  and  to  read ; 
Sent  beautiful  gifts  to  the  friends  she  loved  best, 
And  then  in  an  evil  hour  gave  all  the  rest 
To  a  friend  of  her  own  in  her  name  to  invest. 
So  you  see  she  was  left  —  'tis  a  crime  in  a  court  — 
Without  any  visible  means  of  support ; 
But  I'm  sure  the  committee  man  ought  not  to  blame 

her, 
For  'tis  owing  to  him  she's  in  such  a  dilemma. 
Now  ragged  and  tattered  she  walks  through  the  street. 
The  scoff  of  each  walker  she  chances  to  meet. 
Through  the  rents  in  her  gaiters  peep  forth  her  white 

hose, 
To    be    followed,     she     fears     every    day,     by    her 

t-o-u-g-h-8 ! 

She  had  long  wished  and   hoped   for  a   water-proof 

cloak, 
But  she  fears  that  her  wishes  will  vanish  in  smoke. 
And  then,  too,  she  wears  such  a  shocking  old  bonnet  — 
0  the  rains  and  the  snows  that  have  beaten  upon  it  — 


) 

TO  MR.    SMITH  161 

And  then  by-and-by  to  her  home  she  must  go, 

And  though  stocks  in  all  railroads  have  fallen  quite 

low, 
I  suppose  a  conductor  won't  carry  her  far 
Unless  she  can  pay  for  a  seat  in  the  car. 

Now  if  I  were  that  girl  and  if  that  man  were  you. 
My  dear  Mr.  Smith,  tell  me  what  would  you  do  ? 
Turn  a  merciless  ear  to  her  pitiful  cries, 
Or  come  to  her  aid  with  the  needful  supplies  ? 
Having  shared  in  her  fault,  would  you  share  in  her 


pain 


9 


Or  turn  away  with  "Don't  be  caught  so  again." 
A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient,  they  say  — 
That  word  being  spoken,  I  hasten  away  — 
With  a  wish  that  your  shadow  may  never  be  less 
(And  that  is  a  very  great  wish,  you'll  confess). 
I  beg  your  permission  to  bid  you. adieu. 
Yours  very  respectfully, 

Can't  you  guess  who  ? 


I 

162         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 


L 


ANTENATAL 

ITTLE  Baby  feet,  patter,  patter. 

Coming  hither  down  the  road  from  Heaven  — 
Little  Baby  cheek,  rest  softly 

On  the  mother's  breast  God  hath  given  — 
Little  Baby  life,  float  lightly 

In  the  sea  of  love  round  thee  flowing  — 
Little  Baby  sun,  rise  brightly, 

Far  be  the  night  of  thy  going. 

Little  Baby  soul,  love  wisdom, 

Borne  to  thee  in  fatherly  caresses  — 
Little  Baby  heart,  learn  goodness, 

Dropt  to  thee  in  motherly  kisses ; 
Love-guided  wisdom  be  thy  pole-star, 

So  shall  the  Earth-life  given 
Be  but  a  firm  and  gentle  treading 

Back  again  along  the  road  to  Heaven. 

March  9,  1858. 

TO   C.    L.   TALLANT 

GARRY-Lina  —  Louisa,  Miss  Tallant,  my  dear  — - 
Or  whatever  pet  name  softly  falls  on  your  ear, 
I  meant  to  come  round  to  look  after  your  weal. 
To  ask  your  poor  head  how  it  happens  to  feel. 
To  see  that  your  heart  has  a  regular  beat, 
To  "  figet "  your  "  oscula  dulcia  "  sweet, 


TO   C.   L.   TALLANT  163 

To  know  what  the  light  of  your  eyes  may  betray, 

And  your  dear  piquant  nose  —  is  it  not,  by  the  way. 

Just  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  retrousse  ? 

But,  my  dear,  when  the  usual  deafening  shout 

Announced  to  the  city  that  school  was  out, 

So  brimful  of  tired  I  was  that  my  skin 

Seemed  only  a  bag  to  hold  weariness  in. 

And  further  than  this,  as  if  only  to  show. 

That  every  terrestrial  cup  of  woe 

(Here  you'll  twist  up  your  lips  in  a  sweet  little  pucker) 

Is  never  so  "  chuck  full "  it  can't  be  made  chucker, 

I  found  to  my  sorrow  as  soon  as  I  rose, 

And  walked  to  the  closet  to  put  on  my  clo'es, 

There  must  be  some  blisters  right  under  my  toes  — 

And  when  you  remember,  as  surely  you  will. 

That  I've  lived  for  a  year  away  out  on  "  the  Hill," 

You'll  at  once  understand  why  direct  I  should  come 

In  such  a  condition  the  nearest  way  home  ; 

But  then  I'm  consoled  since  I  know  you'll  receive 

The  very  best  care  the  good  Dimmocks  can  give  — 

Though   the  whole   world  desert  you  —  it  certainly 

won't  — 
You  may  always  be  certain  of  our  Miss  Hunt  — 
And  not  a  cloud  her  heaven  can  fleck 
Who  dwells  in  the  sunshine  of  Mary  Peck  — 
And  besides  all  this,  I'm  consoled,  my  dear. 
That  however  bad  my  verses  appear, 
I  appeal  to  the  eye  much  worse  than  the  ear. 


164         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Should  you  like  to  know  of  our  goings-on 
In  Asylum  Street  since  you  have  been  gone  ? 
Miss  Hunt  will  have  told  you  the  lamentation 
About  to  go  up  from  the  Association, 
Because  we  don't  go  down 
To  the  goodly  town  ' 

When  it  holds  its  annual  Convocation. 
I  suppose,  don't  you,  that  they'll  rend  their  hair  — 
And  their  garments  too  (if  the  worse  for  wear)  — 
And  iterate,  "  Ichabod  !     Glory  departed !  " 
(Which  won't  be  quite  true  since  it  never  started  !) 

As  for  the  rest  we  roll,  my  dear, 

In  much  the  same  rut  as  when  you  were  here  ; 

The  brook  still  flows  on  its  course  unseen. 

Only  the  grass  is  a  fresher  green, 

Where  the  trill  of  the  musical  ripple  hath  been. 

And  men  as  ever  admire  the  sight 

And  gaze  on  its  greenness  with  great  delight. 

Mr.  Capron  is  calm  —  Mr.  Wilcox  is  clever  — 

And  Bertha  Olmstead  as  good  as  ever  — 

And  we  all  plod  on  in  our  various  courses 

Much  like  overworked,  bony  dray  horses. 

I  sit  now  and  then  in  the  curule  chair 

And  gaze  about  with  a  mingled  air, 

A  cross  between  crossness  and  despair. 

And  hurl  the  ciphers  and  failures  about 

To  the  multitudinous  rabble  rout. 


TO   C.   L.    TALLANT  166 

(A  poet's  license  —  they're  wondrous  good  — 
I  couldn't  cipher  them  if  I  would) 
And  wildly  scream  to  the  ultimate  corner 
Where  some  metaphysical  young  Jack  Horner 
Has  put  in  his  thumb 
To  pick  out  a  plum 
From  Alfred,  the  noble,  or  Caedmon  the  dumb ; 
You  may  rightly  judge  hence 
As  a  consequence 
My  throat  is  full  of  little  rents, 
And  split  all  across  like  a  five-rail  fence. 

I've  had  several  adventures  out  of  school ; 

Would  you  like  to  hear  them  ?  —  then  pray  keep  cool  — 

I  saw  a  man  come  near  being  killed, 

Because  like  all  men  he  was  horrid  self-willed. 

His  name,  I  believe,  was  Mason  Weld 

(Here  throw  in  a  word  that  will  rhyme  —  say  telled)  j 

The  cars  were  going  —  were  almost  gone  — 

He  had  bag  and  shawl,  but  he  would  get  on  — 

And  so  he  did  —  'twas  a  sight  to  appal  — 

For  if  he  had  fallen  —  he  didn't  fall  — 

They'd  have  gone  straight  over  him,  bag  and  all ! 

Indeed,  I  myself  was  not  very  far 

From  being  run  over,  though  not  by  a  car. 

But  a  cart  dragged  along  by  a  broken-down  Dobbin, 

Whose  scraggy  old  head  kept  a  bob-bob-bobbin  ! 

A  very  ignoble  kind  of  way 

To  depart  from  this  life  you  will  justly  say  — 


166         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Because  if  you  must  for  original  sin 

Have  your  senses  knocked  out  by  your  skull  knocked 

in, 
'Tis  a  mitigation  —  it  is  indeed  — 
To  have  it  done  by  a  decent  steed  — 
Bestrode,  perhaps,  at  least,  in  our  plan, 
By  a  very  uncommonly  nice  young  man. 
With  a  black  mustache,  and  the  "  handsomest  eyes  " 
Who  shall  pick  you  up  with  remorseful  sighs, 
And  beg  all  the  doctors  to  use  their  art. 
To  bring  back  the  pulse  to  your  pulseless  heart, 
And  then  —  and  then  —  0  'tis  pretty,  very. 
And  I  leave  out  the  best  —  the  corollary  — 
But,  dear  me  —  where's  the  romance  to  brag  on 
Killed  outright  by  a  one-horse  wagon  ? 

The  Light  Horse  Guards  have  been  out  to-day. 

At  least  so  I  heard  the  pupils  say, 

And  Ellen  and  I  as  we  went  up  the  street, 

Mohilia  turba  Quiritium  did  meet  — 

Women  with  babies,  and  children  with  toys, 

And  men  with  their   aprons,  and  swarms  of   small 

boys  — 
And  scores  of  lean  horses  with  very  fat  riders, 
All  very  imposing  to  youthful  outsiders ; 
And  a  man  in  the  middle  with  iron  lung 
And  a  brazen  throat  and  a  leather  tongue. 
Kept  up  a  continual  steady  "  screech," 
To  play,  I  suppose,  they  were  storming  a  breach  — 


TO   C.   L.   TALLANT  167 

And  they  brandished  their  swords  (that  could  hardly 

slay) 
In  a  rather  desperate  kind  of  way  — 
And  were  somewhat  stupid  and  shockingly  dusty, 
And  altogether  decidedly  rusty  ; 
No  doubt  "  the  Guards  "  are  very  effective, 
But  they  didn't  look  in  the  least  protective. 

Ah,  well,  my  dear,  it  would  tire  you  out 

If  I  should  tell  you  all  about 

The  various  things  I  have  suffered  and  done  — 

How  I  bought  a  fan  —  it  is  not  my  own  — 

And  how  notwithstanding  my  conscience  frowning  — 

I  looked  and  longed  for  a  Mrs.  Browning ; 

How  I  wanted  a  picture  worthy  that  name, 

And  then  for  the  picture  a  worthy  frame. 

One  forever  to  grace  my  home  —  I 

Had  bought  —  but  —  the  ?-es  angusta  domi  ! 

Shall  I  tell  you,  my  love,  how  I  had  the  good  manners 

To  save  for  you  some  delicious  bananas 

I  had  from  a  girl  ?  —  but  I  didn't  come  — 

And  so  of  course  I  conveyed  them  home  — 

Intending  to  keep  them  —  I  did  —  for  you. 

But  when  I  saw  them  spread  out  to  my  view, 

I  began  to  think  they  wouldn't  keep, 

Or  perhaps  they  would  hurt  you  —  drive  away  sleep — 

And  so  at  once  —  contradict  me  you  won't  — 

I  became  unselfish  —  like  Ellen  Hunt  — 


168         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGE8 

Disinterestedly  broke  my  oath, 

And   to   save   you   from    suffering,   swallowed   them 

both! 
Good  night,  good  night,  my  dear,  the  hours  increase, 
And  this  my  idle  strain,  perforce,  must  cease  — 
With  laughter  I  can  lonely  vigil  keep, 
But  rather  praying  choose  to  "fall  on  sleep." 
With  those  I  love,  your  name  is  writ,  my  dear. 
With  those  that  love  me  well  shall  yours  appear  ? 
It  matters  not ;  you  are  the  same  to  me. 
And  this  my  prayer  for  you  shall  always  be : 
Not  that  no  cloud  forevermore  may  dim 

Your  spirit's  shining. 
But  that  the  cloud  in  time  may  turn  to  you 

A  silver  lining ; 
Not  that  no  bitter  evermore  may  mar 

Your  joy's  completeness, 
But  that  from  every  bitter  you  may  pluck 

Its  heart  of  sweetness ; 
Not  that  no  sword  may  ever  pierce  your  soul. 

But  that  your  sorrows 
May  be  but  swift-winged  pioneers  to  lead 

To  brighter  morrows  ; 
Not  that  unfaltering  you  may  tread  your  path 

Whate'er  its  length. 
But  that  from  every  weakness  you  may  learn 

To  gather  strength ; 
Not  that  no  work  may  henceforth  ever  burden 


TO  C.  L.   TALLANT  169 

Your  spirit's  wings, 
But  that  your  life-long  work  may  always  be 

In  holy  things ; 
Not  that  your  eyes  may  never  fail  to  see 

Triumph  complete, 
But  that  a  glorious  victory  you  may  wrest 

From  each  defeat  — 
Till  fought  is  the  last  fierce  fight  — 

Ended  the  strife  — 
And  you  rise  from  the  deep  dishonor  of  death 

To  freer  and  fuller  life. 

Benediciti. 

P.S.  preceding  the  letter. 
I'm  afraid  you  will  think  there  is  something  amiss 

Or  I'm  an  uncommonly  stupid  dunce  — 
To  be  sending  you  —  ill  —  such  a  letter  as  this  — 

But  you  need  not  read  it  all  at  once, 

Hartford,  Conn.,  June  2,  1858. 


170         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

VESTIGES 

nY  eyes  were  not  blessed  with  a  vision, 
My  ears  caught  no  music  divine  ; 
But  I  knew  by  the  rose-scattered  pathway 
The  point  where  an  angel  crossed  mine. 
An  angel  ?     Nay,  only  a  woman 

Dispensing  the  bounties  of  God  — 
Could  an  angel  do  more  ?     Then  an  angel 

One  moment  my  pathway  has  trod. 
0  blessed,  or  angel  or  woman  — 

Whatever  of  grief  it  encloses  — 
That  heart  whose  way  into  the  heaven 
Is  traced  by  the  scent  of  the  roses. 
To  Mart  Peck,  July  14,  1858. 

WITH   pomp  of  rhythmic  strain  it  scarce  were 
meet 
To  lay  my  Christmas  tribute  at  thy  feet. 
Since  all  who  look  upon  thy  face  must  see 
A  womanhood  above  all  poesy. 
To  Mb8.  Bailey,  with  polish  boots,  Christinas,  1858. 


L 


ET  not  thy  heart,  0  noble  friend 
My  humble  gift  despise, 

But  may  the  simple  offering 
Find  favor  in  thine  eyes. 

I  know  that  with  the  shining  Ones 


VESTIGES  171 

Thy  genial  home  is  found, 
But  though  thy  head  may  knock  the  stars, 

Thy  feet  must  touch  the  ground. 
Dream  on,  then,  of  those  fairer  realms 

Above  our  world  of  strife, 
And  give  us  foretastes  of  the  joys 

That  gild  the  "  Future  Life." 
But  lesser  crowns  for  lesser  brows  — 

I  count  not  Fate  remiss 
If  she  but  grant  my  grateful  hands 

To  guard  thy  feet  in  this. 

To  Mk.  George  Wood,'  with  pair  of  socks,  Christmas. 


I 


FEAE  it  will  seem  an  Hibernian  stroke 

To  mark  the  sincerest  of  loves 
By  begloving  a  man  whose  great  glory  it  is 

That  he  handles  all  sin  without  gloves. 
But  remember,  I  pray,  that  the  glove  in  old  time 

Was  a  signal  of  mortal  defiance  — 
And  in  these  evil  days  if  a  man  can  be  found 

On  whom  Christendom  places  reliance  — 
Who  always  stands  ready  to  shiver  a  lance, 

For  the  love  of  the  right,  not  renown,  — 
It  is  surely  the  least  his  admirers  can  do 

To  provide  him  with  gloves  to  throw  down. 

To  Dk.  Bailey,  with  pair  of  gloves,  Christmas, 
1  Author  of  "  Scenes  in  Another  World." 


172        CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,  AND  VESTIGES 


TO 


IN    ANSWER   FOR    "  SOMETHING    SWEET    AND    PRETTY 
JUST    LIKE    YOURSELF." 

A  CLAM  to  your  flounces  tenaciously  clinging  — 
The  bell  of  the  milkman  his  matinals  ringing  — 
A  cabbage  upreared  by  your  lilies  and  roses, 
A  hand  'neath  the  hinge  of  the  door  when  it  closes  — 
The  dragon  of  Wantley,  whose  taste  architectural 
Makes  us  fancy  the  tale  was  extremely  conjectural  — 
A  pony  descended  from  old  Rosin  ante,  — 
The  sunflower  in  front  of  an  Irishman's  shanty  — 
A  talker  who  makes  the  chief  part  of  his  role, "  Oh  " — 
A  donkey  who  brays  a  duet  to  your  solo  — 
A  needle  thrust  under  your  delicate  nail  — 
An  epic  by  Blackmore  —  the  Knights  of  the  Grail  — 
The  gravy  upset  on  your  lavender  silk, 
The  salt  in  your  coffee,  your  sleeve  in  the  milk  — 
A  small  boy  in  the  parlor  entirely  de  trop  — 
(How  many  there  should  be  you  very  well  know)  — 
I  give  since  you  asked  me,  you  mischievous  elf. 
For  "  something  sweet  and  pretty  just  like  myself." 


A  PENCILED-SKETCH  173 

A  PENCILED-SKETCH  1 

nY  dear,  was  it  ever  your  fortune  to  pass 
Through  a  green  meadow,  soft  with  the  fresh 
springing  grass  ? 
I  might  call  it  emerald  or  some  precious  stone, 
But  well  enough  is  always  best  let  alone. 
If  a  meadow  is  green,  why  not  say  so  I  pray, 
As  well  as  go  off  in  some  roundabout  way  — 
*  Eeathered-songster,'  or  '  warbler,'  or  any  such  word, 
Is  not  to  my  ear  half  so  sweet  as  a  bird  ; 
But  let  this  alone,  we'll  go  back  to  the  cows, 
Who  can't  be  expected  forever  to  browse. 

I  was  going  to  remark  on  their  wonderful  strength. 
Their  sinewy  legs  and  their  horns'  winding  length ; 
Yet  so  gentle  and  tender,  the  softest  white  hand 
Unharmed    may    stroke   their   brown   necks  as  they 

stand. 
But  if  you  should  chance  on  the  pond  in  your  path, 
When  the  gander  is  just  going  down  to  a  bath, 
With  a  party  of  geese,  and  their  goslings  behind  — 
Whose  strength  if  united  you  scarcely  would  mind  — 
Ten  to  one  but  he  makes  a  blind  rush,  hit  or  miss. 
Expanding  his  soul  in  a  terrible  hiss. 
Flutters  out  his  broad  wings,  stretches  out  his  long 

neck. 
And  threatens  to  perpetrate  terrible  things, 

1  Found  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter  of  Sept.  20, 1859. 


174         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Till  you  grasp  the  long  neck  with  its  rufflings, 
And  take  him  to  walk  by  your  side  nolens  volensy 
Which  very  soon  quenches  the  flame  of  his  ire, 
And  makes  him  exceedingly  long  to  retire. 

The  more  of  this  in  your  memory  you  keep, 

Wrapped,  fashion-phrase,  —  still  waters  run  deep 

Or  less  elegant  yet  of  a  usage  far  wide 

To  be  carefully  shunned,  though  all  talk  (beside), 

But  unlike  the  great  number  of  morals  you  see 

That  alone  is  for  you,  and  the  moral  for  me, 

For  I  have  a  story,  my  dear,  to  relate 

Which  hardly  can  merit  the  epithet  —  great  — 

And,  ergo,  to  make  it  more  worthy  your  time, 

I  have  taken  precaution  to  dress  it  in  rhyme. 

Indulging  the  hope,  I  mean  no  offence. 

To  make  up  in  sound  what  is  wanting  in  sense. 


0 


BY   THE   SEA 

,  SAUCY,  sparkling  sea. 

Curling  along  the  strand. 
Flashing  your  foam  out  in  snowy  curves. 

To  entrap  me  where  I  stand ; 
Dancing  in  maiden  mirth 

Up  to  the  gray  old  beach, 
Gliding  away  where  he  woos  you  to  stay. 

Forever  beyond  his  reach. 


A  VISION  175 

I  know  you,  saucy  sea, 

I  hear  what  you  do  not  say  — 
I  have  learned  the  secret  that  fills  your  heart 

And  laughs  in  your  wild  waves'  play. 
There  is  —  one  —  who  is  coming  home  ; 

You  have  seen  his  white  sails  gleam ; 
You  stayed  your  mad  flight  to  listen  last  night 

For  the  name  that  he  breathed  in  his  dream. 

0,  beautiful,  purple  sea, 

I  forgive  you  —  but  will  he  come  ? 
Oh,  mock  at  the  mermaids,  oh,  jeer  at  the  sands, 

But  happily  bring  him  home. 
I  could  think  it  was  grief,  not  joy. 

Such  a  fever  burns  in  my  breast. 
With  the  evening  star  comes  my  love  from  afar. 

And  lo  !  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west ! 


A   VISION 

SAW,  upon  a  summit  lone, 

A  temple  rise  to  sight ; 
About  its  turrets  played  the  beams 
Of  an  unearthly  light. 

I  saw  a  valley  dark  and  wide. 
Veiled  all  by  misty  shrouds, 

Save  where  the  cliffs  of  either  side 
Peered  out  from  restless  clouds. 


176         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

I  saw  a  plain  where  light  young  forms 
Were  gliding  'mid  the  bowers, 

Beneath  whose  quivering  shades  they  twined 
Bright  wreaths  of  brilliant  flowers. 

They  sported  ever  heedlessly 

All  o'er  that  sunny  plain ; 
Nor  looked  they  downward  to  the  vale 

'Nov  upward  to  the  fane. 

From  out  the  plain  went  separate  ways  ; 

One,  winding  to  the  height, 
The  other  ended  at  the  vale, 

In  darkness,  black  as  night. 

I  saw  each  spirit  choose  his  path 

When  passing  out  the  plain  ; 
But  none  might  stop  in  all  the  way 

Or  backward  turn  again. 

Three-score  and  ten  the  milestones  were 

Along  the  downward  way  ; 
Three-score  and  ten  along  the  path 

That  led  to  endless  day  ; 

Save  twelve  they  passed  upon  the  plain 

As  carelessly  they  went ; 
And  heeded  not  the  sep'rate  paths 

Whither  their  footsteps  bent. 


A  VISION  177 


I  saw  sometimes  the  upward  way 

To  wind  a  beetling  verge  ; 
But  spirits  from  the  fane  came  down 

The  wayworn,  on  to  urge. 

Some  passed  the  milestones  in  the  plain 
Then  took  the  upward  way  ; 

Nor  paused  till  they  from  out  the  fane 
Received  them  into  day. 

Some  walked  awhile  the  downward  path 
Then  turned  them  from  the  train, 

And  sought  across  a  tangled  wild 
The  upward  path  to  gain. 

Far  in  the  dim  and  cloud-capt  heights, 

I  saw  a  weary  one, 
Who  almost  all  the  steeps  had  climbed, 

The  fane  had  almost  won. 

And  then  I  saw  the  temple  gates 

For  him,  wide  open  flung. 
One  flash  of  glory  down  the  steep, 

And  then  they  backward  swung. 

The  vision  past,  I  heard  a  voice. 

The  magic  of  whose  strain. 
My  spirit  thrilled,  as  down  I  looked 

Once  more  towards  the  plain. 


178         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

I  saw  a  being,  fair  to  sight, 

She  was  a  child  of  song ; 
And  by  the  love-light  in  her  eye, 

They  knew  her  in  the  throng. 

The  broader  way  towards  the  vale 
At  first  her  footsteps  chose, 

But  soon  she  wearied  of  the  path, 
Its  joys  were  turned  to  woes. 

Way-worn,  up  to  the  fane  of  life 
A  hopeful  glance  she  cast. 

And  then  to  gain  the  other  way 
Across  the  wild  she  passed. 

I  saw  a  kindred  spirit  come  — 
He,  too,  had  left  the  plain  — 

He  chose  her  from  the  pilgrim  throng 
The  heights  with  him  to  gain, 

A  score  of  milestones  had  she  passed 
When  spirits  from  the  height 

Came  down  to  bear  her  up  the  steep 
To  realms  of  endless  light. 

I  saw  the  joy  of  earthly  things 
Fade  from  her  upturned  eye; 

Her  lips  grew  pallid  when  they  bore 
Her  spirit  up  on  high. 


ETTIE  179 

Again  I  saw  the  temple  gates 

For  her  wide  open  flung, 
One  flash  of  glory  down  the  steep, 

And  then  they  backward  swung. 

They  called  her  Ehoda  in  the  way 

And  Rhoda  in  the  plain. 
Another  name  she  bears  among 

The  spirits  of  the  fane. 

"ETTIE" 

Died  in  the  morning,  Feb.  11, 1861 

SET  her  chair  against  the  wall, 
Let  her  little  primer  lie, 
Fold  the  little  frock  away. 
Lay  the  little  thimble  by ; 
Take  the  little  battered  shoes 

From  their  place  upon  the  floor  — 
Oh !  the  tender  little  feet 

That  will  never  want  them  more  ! 

For  an  angel  came  from  Heaven 

Ere  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
From  the  arms  that  would  have  held  her 

Bore  our  little  one  away ; 
She  had  known  life  by  its  sunshine, 

Not  its  sorrow,  shame,  or  sin  ; 
But  the  pearly  gates  stood  open 

And  the  dear  Christ  smiled  her  in. 


180         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Darling,  in  the  Heaven  of  heavens, 

Are  your  shy,  sweet  eyes  the  same  ? 
Do  you  still  lisp  broken  love-talk  ? 

Do  you  wear  your  baby  name  ? 
It  may  be  a  new  baptism 

Sealed  you  at  your  heavenly  birth  — 
But  no  name  can  have  more  love  in 

Than  the  one  you  bore  on  earth. 


Now  your  little  feet  are  walking 

In  the  garden  of  the  Lord  — 
Now  your  little  voice  is  swelling 

The  new  song  with  sweet  accord  • 
Now  your  little  heart  is  learning 

All  the  joy  that  angels  know, 
Do  you  never  miss  the  loving 

Who  are  waiting  here  below  ? 

Do  you  mind  the  little  sister 

Who  was  wild  to  see  your  face 
Missing  only  for  a  week 

From  its  old  accustomed  place  ? 
Timid  birdling  in  the  home-nest, 

Half  afraid  if  one  were  by, 
Is  your  little  heart  quite  peaceful 

In  its  home  beyond  the  sky  ? 


ORIGINAL   ODE  181 

Jesus,  Saviour,  pity,  pardon 

Doubts  and  fears  but  born  of  grief ; 
We  believe  in  thy  salvation  ; 

Help  thou,  Lord,  our  unbelief. 
Pardon,  if  the  sweet  child-voices 

Make  thy  love  seem  like  decree  — 
"  Suffer  ye  the  little  children 

As  of  old  to  come  to  me." 

Safely  in  thy  arms  we  leave  her  — 

Folded  closely  to  thy  breast. 
There  shall  nothing  come  to  grieve  her. 

Earth  is  fair,  but  Heaven  is  best. 
Now  for  us  the  shadows  deepen 

In  the  sunlight  where  she  stood ; 
But  for  her  the  day  is  dawning 

Into  glory.     God  is  good. 


ORIGINAL   ODE 

Written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  Essex  Agricultural  /Society, 
September  23, 1861. 

NOW  hang  up  the  sickle,  the  reapers  are  done  ! 
The  warm   rains,  the  soft  dews,  and  the  sweet 
summer  sun 
Have  cheerily  wrought  with  the  brawny  arms  here, 
And  the  Harvest-Moon  smiles  on  the  fruits   of  the 
year. 


182         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,    AND    VESTIGES 

Ho  !  Freemen  of  Essex !  Stout  sons  of  the  soil ! 
What  meed  to  your  labors,  what  rest  to  your  toil, 
While  the  tread  of  the  traitor  pollutes  the  wronged 

earth. 
And  Liberty  faints  in  the  land  of  her  birth  ? 

Runs  the  blood  of  your  sires  pale  and  weak  in  your 

veins  ? 
Will    the    ringing   of   gold    drown    the   clanking   of 

chains  ? 
Will  you  sit  by  your    firesides  and   count  up  your 

store, 
While  shame  keeps  with  death,  watch  and  ward  at 

the  door  ? 

No  !  a  thousand  times  No !  thunder  out  on  the  air. 
Here  are  strong  arms  to  do  —  here  are  brave  hearts  to 

dare! 
The  fair  vales  that  thrilled   under   Putnam's  young 

tread. 
Give  birth  to  no  dastards  —  bring  shame  to  no  dead. 

By  the  past  that  bequeathed  us  our  might  of  to-day  — 

By  the  future  that  calls  up  a  glory-paved  way, 

All  the  strength  of   our   prime,  all   the  fire  of   our 

youth. 
We  joyfully  lay  on  the  altar  of  Truth. 


OKIGINAL   ODE  183 

In  tlie  sheen  of  our  steel,  guilt   shall  read  its  just 

doom. 
The  breath  of  the  North  is  the  traitor's  simoom ! 
Flash   brightly,    sharp    steel!      Rush    swiftly,    fierce 

breath ! 
And  sweep  treachery  down  to  the  valley  of  death ! 

Fling   our   flag   to    the   breeze.      It   shall   never   be 

furled  — 
The  gleam  of  its  stars  is  the  hope  of  the  world ! 
With  its  folds  floating  o'er  us,  we  gird  on  the  sword, 
And  go  forth  to  fight  in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

Brave  yeomen  of  Essex !     Your  field  is  our  Land, 
Immortal  the  fruits  it  shall  yield  to  your  hand. 
Match  your  strength  to  your  day  —  Sow  to  God,  the 

good  Giver, 
And  ring  out  your  Harvest-Home  one  and  forever  ! 

(From  "  Life  in  Letters.") 

Mr.  D.  showed  my  "  Ode  "  to  Mr.  Caleb  Gushing,  who 
professed  to  admire  it,  and  being  asked  to  criticise  it 
pointed  to  the  first  line  and  asked  if  the  reapers  were 
done  brown  ?  I  thought  usage  justified  that  con- 
struction, and  tried  to  hunt  up  authorities,  but  with 
small  success  —  so  it  came  into  my  mind  to  ask 
Charles  Sumner.  I  wrote  him,  and  the  next  day  he 
sent  me  the  following  reply : 


184         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

The  day  is  done  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

Longfellow. 

Boston,  8th  Oct.,  '61. 
Madam : 

I  think  your  verses  excellent,  including  the  first 
line.  You  must  write  more.  Accept  my  thanks  for 
your  kind,  good  words  about  myself. 

Faithfully  yrs., 

Charles  Sumner. 


HYMN    SUNG    AT    THE    SEMI-CENTENNIAL 
IN  BRAINTREE 


H 


OPE  smiles  amid  the  May-time's  scented  buds, 

Joy  sits  enthroned  beneath  the  purpling  vine  ; 
But  Autumn  may  not  wreathe  Spring  violets, 

Nor  April  quaff  October's  ruddy  wine ; 
Yet,  on  Judea's  sacred  soil,  there  blooms 

Thrice  beautiful,  thrice  blessed,  one  fair  tree 
Whose   fruit   and   flower  their   grateful  incense 
blend, 

Joy  of  the  Now,  and  Hope  of  the  To-be. 


Home." 


HYMN  185 

So,  thou  long-tried  and  purely  true  in  all, 

Thou  standest  in  thy  Heaven-appointed  way  ; 
The  years  that  bind  a  glory  round  thy  brow, 

Lay  gathered  vintage  at  thy  feet  to-day. 
But  while  the  reapers  shout  the  Harvest  Home, 

God's  angel,  Hope,  spreads  wide  each  quiver- 
ing wing. 
And  sees  beyond  the  golden-glowing  West, 

The  fair,  full  promise  of  perpetual  Spring. 

0  happy  hand,  damp  with  baptismal  dews ! 

0  loving  lips,  sweet  with  the  balm  of  God  ! 
Strong  arm  to  bear  the  grief -worn  spirit  up ! 

Firm  feet  to  lead  where  Christ,  the  Saviour, 
trod !  — 
Thy  grateful  children  gather  round  thee  here 

To  lift  to  thine  the  light  of  tender  eyes, 
And  with  warm  hearts,  nor  time  nor  death  can 
chill. 

Attend  thine  upward  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Note  A. 

Boston,  June  25th,  1861. 
Dear  Gail: 

The  "  Asa  French  "  whose  name  appears  herewith 
is  one  of  my  brothers-in-law,  and  hence  is  a  very  pre- 
suming feller,  generally,  and  presumed  to  write  me 
to-day  the  enclosed  note.      It  seems  Professor  Park 


186         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

thinks  that  you  could  write  a  good  Hymn  for  good  Dr. 
Storrs'  semi-centennial.  Now,  with  your  usual  obstin- 
acy, please  be  so  kind  as  to  write  me  by  return  mail 
that  you  can't  and  shan't  and  don't  know  how  to 
write,  and  then  I  can  write  Asa  that  Gail  won't,  and 
the  other  woman  I  don't  believe  knows  enough  to,  so 
that  the  hymn  is  non  est  inventus  —  which  will  be  a 
great  comfort  to  Dr.  S.  and  the  people  generally. 

T. 

P.S.  —  Don't  on  any  account  displease  me  so  much 
as  to  write  that  hymn, 

T. 

Note  B. 
My  dear  Child  : 

My  brother-in-law  sends  me  this  proof  of  your 
"  lines  "  for  Dr.  S.'s  celebration,  and —  like  a  good  boy 
who  wishes  everything  to  be  done  to  please  you  —  I 
send  them  herewith  to  you  for  your  revision.  You 
are,  of  course,  at  liberty  to  add,  alter,  amend,  correct, 
revise,  subtract,  divide,  and  conquer  generally  with 
.'em. 

But  they  are  good,  and  so  don't  utterly  spile  'em, 
will  ye  ? 

I  hope  to  get  time  to  write  to  you  before  long. 

Aff., 

T. 


HYMN  187 

Note  C 

Boston,  Oct.  9,  1861. 
.  ,  .  I  want  permission  to  append  "  Gail  Ham- 
ilton's "  name  to  her  beautiful  hymn.  Are  you  author- 
ized to  give  it  ?  If  not,  do  me  the  favor  to  procure 
her  assent.  She  need  not  fear  that  her  reputation  will 
suffer  by  it,  for,  to  my  mind,  there  is  more  real  poetic 
inspiration  shown  in  that  hymn  than  in  all  the  rest 
that  we  had  put  together. 

I  hate  to  trouble  you  about  this,  but  then  what  is 
the  use  of  having  friends  if  you  can't  use  them  once 
in  a  while  ? 

Truly  your  brother, 

Asa. 
Note  D 
Dear  Gail  : 

You  see  what  my  infatuated  brother-in-law  wants. 
Will  you  give  him  permission,  in  view  of  his  appreci- 
ation of  your  "  lines  "  ? 

AfE., 
T. 
Note  E 
Dear  Child  : 

You  did  a  good  thing  when  you  wrote  that  hymn, 
and  your  reward  is  the  gratitude  of  good  Dr.  Storrs, 
and  —  the  committee  of  arrangements,  —  and  the 
congregation  generally.  You  will  see,  however,  by  the 
programme  which  I  send  you,  that,  at  the  last  moment 


188         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

the  poets  of  the  nation  generally  waked  up  to  the  sub- 
ject, and  "  sent  in." 

I  have  the  pleasure,  however,  to  state  that  it  was 
the  general  opinion  of  the  best  judges  —  including  my 
brother-in-law  and  myself  —  that  the  best  hymn,  by  far, 
was  that  in  doubled  and  twisted  long  meter,  which  ap- 
pears last  but  one  on  the  programme,  and  which  was 
sung,  with  the  "  Festival  Hymn,"  during  the  more  in- 
formal "  addresses  "  of  the  afternoon. 

The  day  was  magnificent,  and  the  occasion  one  to  be 
remembered  long  and  fragrantly,  ...  I  was  de- 
sired and  commissioned  to  thank  you  almost  to  death 
for  your  kindness  and  for  the  hymn,  etc.,  all  of  which 
I  hereby  do. 

ANSWEKED 

GOLD,  and  gear,  and  storied  birthright  —  take  the 
gilded  trumpery  up ! 
Life  may  bring  me  gall  and  wormwood,  but  I 
scorn  your  honeyed  cup. 
Meekness  lends  its  graceful  semblance  as  you  come 

with  bended  knee, 
But  I  read  your  inmost  soul  and  I  know  its  mockery. 

O  your  white  hands,  diamond-flashing,  they  will  clasp 

my  hand  forsooth ! 
You  will  condescend  to  give  your  name  in  barter  for 

my  youth. 


ANSWEKEI)  189 

At  your  footstool  I  shall  gladly  lay  my  panting  spirit 

down  ; 
You  will  stoop  and  place  the  jewel  somewhat  kindly, 

in  your  crown  ! 

Long  the  doubt  has  been,  and  bitter  was  the  trial  to 
your  pride. 

Should  you,  through  those  gray  old  portals,  lead  a 
nameless,  dowerless  bride  ? 

Should  the  blood  to  you  transmitted  in  a  pure,  un- 
tainted flow 

Through  a  thousand  generations,  now  a  base  admix- 
ture know  ? 


Uprose  Love  and  showed  the  maiden  as  you  saw  her 

day  by  day  ; 
How  the  sunshine  of  her  presence  wrought  red  gold 

of  coarsest  clay. 
How  her  genial  mirth  would  play  about  the  summits 

of  your  life 
And  her  grateful  love  repay  you  that  you  stooped  to 

call  her  wife. 


Thus  in  the  quivering  scales  uncertain  did  you  watch 

with  clear,  calm  eye. 
Until  Reason  bade   remember  how   the   years   glide 

noiseless  by. 


190         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Pride  is  but  a  flimsy  blanket  when  a  frost  is  on  the 

panes. 
Pride  is  but  unsavory  porridge  when  a  chill  is  in  the 

veins. 


So  you  breathed  a  requiescat  to  the  dead  within  their 
graves : 

"  Blood  is  strong,  but  love  is  stronger ;  olood  claims 
service,  love  makes  slaves." 

Thus  with  smiling  self-excuse  straight  swung  back 
my  garden  gate  — 

Soothing  Pride's  Cerberean  mouths  with  the  home- 
made sop  of  fate. 

Truly  a  right  princely  lover,  come  to  woo  a  lowly 

maid: 
Rather  of  consent  than  question  were  the  untremu- 

lous  words  you  said. 
Certes,  maiden  whom  you  honored  with  your  choice 

were  over-blest. 
Loveliest  rose  would  leave  its   stem   to  bloom  upon 

such  knightly  breast. 

Listen !  When  we  stood  last  evening  underneath  the 

apple-tree 
And  you  in  your  self-complacence  dared  to  speak  those 

words  to  me, 


ANSWERED  191 

Dared  invade  my  throbbing  summer  witli  your  pale 

and  nerveless  cold  — 
Dared  to  set  your  tawdry  tinsel  off  against  my  beaten 

gold  — 

Though  my  heart  flamed  out  in  passion  sweeping 
round  you  as  you  stood, 

Flinging  up  your  puny  soul  blindly  to  my  woman- 
hood — 

Yet  I  spared  you  for  the  past's  sake,  thinking  it  were 
better  so  — 

Bade  my  white  lips  hide  their  scorning  and  respond  a 
kindly  "no," 

Blind !  you  would  not  be  contented  with  the  simple 

words  I  spoke. 
For  the  three-fold  brazen  armor  of  your  pride  turned 

back  the  stroke. 
But  must  goad  my  slender  patience  with  your  weak 

essays  to  win  — 
Though  I  stab  you  to  the  heart,  shall  my  soul  be  free 

from  sin! 


Listen  !  I,  the  lowly  maiden  with  obscure  hand  scarcely 

meet 
But  to  touch  the  golden  sceptre  held  out  to  me  at 

your  feet  — 


192         CHIPS,    FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

I  have  weighed  you  in  the  balance ;  righteous  judg- 
ment kept  control  ; 

Weighed  your  manhood,  found  you  wanting ;  and  I 
scorn  you,  soul  to  soul. 

Well  I  know  your  wooded  acres  and  your  sea-ward 

stretching  fields  — 
All  the  pomp  and  honor  blazoned  on  your  old  heral- 

dric  shields ; 
But  Alcides'  club  was  valiant  only  in  Alcides'  hand  — 
Brave  Excalibur  untempered  till  the  true  Prince  drew 

the  brand. 

Did  the  whole  earth  stretch  before  you,  one  ancestral 

pleasure-park ; 
Mountain  heaps  of  golden  treasures  coined  for  you  in 

caverns  dark ; 
All  your  palace  flaming  ruby,  every  portal  wrought  of 

pearl  — 
Kay  was  but  the  son  of  Antour  —  were  you  any  less  a 

churl  ? 

Well  I  mind  me  of  the  poem  that  you  read  one  August 

morn, 
How   Pleione's   god-like  daughter   wedded  with   the 

base  earth-born  — 
How  her  star  shone  dimly  after,  passion-paling  out  of 

view, 
You  have  read  to  little  purpose  if  I  make  the  story 

true. 


ANSWERED  193 

Haughty  ?  Were  you  humbled  plough-boy,  horny 
hands  embrowned  with  toil, 

Scanty  life  for  soul  and  body  wresting  from  a  surly 
soil, 

And  an  honest  heart  had  proffered  with  its  silent  deeps 
all  stirred  — 

Baby-breath  should  not  be  softer  than  my  sorely-smit- 
ing word. 

Never  yet  a  loyal  soul  brought  true  homage  unto  me 
That  I  did  not  pour  libations  to  Love's  grand  humility. 
Love  for  love  may  not  be  granted,  nor  by  menace,  nor 

by  ruth, 
But  I  shamed  my  mother's  bosom  if  I  gave  not  truth 

for  truth. 

Truth  for  truth  ?  yea,  truth  for  falsehood,  truth  for 
tinsel,  truth  for  you, 

Who  her  royal  port  and  vesture  in  your  grim  halls 
never  knew. 

But  your  satin  words  are  insult :  shall  I  spare  you 
sharpest  pain  ? 

All  your  honor  is  dishonor :  what  is  meeter  than  dis- 
dain ? 

Wherefore  prate  of  summer  mornings  musical    with 

lute  and  song  ? 
Do  not  airs  from  "  Puritani  "  make  a  summer  day  less 

long? 


194         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Rippling  laughter  in  the  pauses  —  was  it  never  heard 

before  ? 
Did  I  blush  and  smile  for  you,  sir  ?    So  I  did  for  twenty 

more. 

But  in  singing,  did  I  ever  sing  my  mother's  songs  to 

you? 
Did  a  silver  silence  ever  fall  upon  us  with  the  dew  ? 
Did  we  ever  wander  vaguely  from  the  commonplace  of 

speech  ? 
Or  the  soul  scale  higher  ranges  than  the  tongue  essayed 

to  reach  ? 

If  I  frolic  in  the  garden  with  my  keen-eyed  pointer 
here 

Would  it  justify  his  claiming  to  be  recognized  my 
peer? 

On  the  banners  of  my  jesting  to  all  common  eyes  un- 
furled, 

Shall  be  read  the  Open  Sesame  to  my  divinest  world  ? 

Paith,  born  of  self -adulation,  holds  in  store  but  inward 

smart, 
You  could  move  me,   but  not  sway  me  —  while  my 

time,  not  touch  my  heart. 
If  in  your  blind  eye-worship  some  dim  phantom  passed 

before  you 
Must   I   vindicate  my  righteousness   by  kneeling   to 

adore  you  ? 


ANSWERED  196 

Go  your  way.     The  world  is  wider  than  that  you  and 

I  should  tend 
With  unequal  steps  discordant  down  one  pathway  to 

the  end. 
Leave  me,  if  so  be  the  silence  soothe  me  to  a  calmer 

state, 
Leave  me,  lest   with  petty  urgence,  my  indifference 

turn  to  hate. 


June's  young  roses,  clasp  above  me  —  twine  around 

me  —  hide  my  pain. 
Murmuring  music,  lull  my  senses  ;  subtle  odors,  pierce 

my  brain. 
0  to  sleep  a  hundred  cycles  if  the  guerdon  they  should 

bring 
Were  a  thrill  along  my  pulses  at  the  coming  of  the 

King! 


196         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

FOR   THE   AGRICULTURAL   ASSOCIATION 

Amesbu/ry,  Oct.  5,  1864 
Hymn  written  by  "  Oail  Hamilton  " 

NCE  more  the  sweet  October  brings 

Her  largesses  of  love  ; 
The  blessings  of  the  earth  beneath, 

And  of  the  skies  above. 
The  maples  lend  their  deepest  glow, 

And  through  the  golden  haze 
The  oak  unfurls  his  scarlet  sheen 

To  crown  our  holidays. 

The  sunshine  of  the  summer  gone 

Laughs  here  in  fruit  and  flowers  ; 
Here  curve  the  coolness  of  her  dews. 

The  fatness  of  her  showers. 
For  these  old  Winter  spread  his  snows. 

And  Autumn  smiles  again,  — 
All  silent  things  of  earth  join  hands 

To  give  good  gifts  to  men. 

0  brothers,  fairer  fruits  than  these 

This  happy  autumn  brings  ; 
The  seed,  long  sown  in  blood  and  tears, 

To  living  beauty  springs. 


HYMN  197 

In  South  and  North,  by  land,  by  sea. 

The  right  once  more  is  strong, 
And  trumpet-notes  of  victory 

Blend  with  our  harvest-song. 

0  joy  for  those  whose  blood  shall  cleanse 

The  spot  our  scutcheon  mars  ! 
Fling  to  the  breeze  the  dear  old  flag, 

No  stain  upon  its  stars  ! 
Lo !  bending  from  their  heavenly  heights. 

Whence  peace  and  freedom  come, 
Our  hero-martyrs  join  with  us 

To  shout  this  harvest  home. 

NOTE 

(In    a  presentation  copy  of   "  New  Atmosphere " 
(1866)  Mr.  Whittier  wrote  on  the  fly-leaf  :) 

"IT  may  be  that  she  wields  a  pen 
I  Too  sharply  nibbed  for  thin-skinned  men, 
That  her  keen  arrows  search  and  try 
The  armor  joints  of  dignity. 
And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 
Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 

"  Heaven  mend  her  faults !     I  will  not  pause 
To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws. 
Or  waste  my  pity  when  some  fool 
Provokes  her  measureless  ridicule." 


198         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

(The  next  volume  of  his  poetry  contained  the  whole 
poem  under  the  title  "  Lines  on  a  Fly-leaf,"  which 
called  out  the  following  repartee  :  ) 

^H  !     My  ! 

A  little  fly 
Folding  her  wings 
On  a  fly-leaf 
Brief, 
Suddenly  sings 
Exclamation-points  and  things 
To  see  a  poet 
Painting  her  picture  so  that  all  the  world  will  know  it 
And  receive  it  — 
But  won't  more  than  half  believe  it ; 
For  the  beauty  dear  is  all  in  your  eyes 
And  doesn't  belong  to  flies 
Of  my  size  ! 

Paint  a  bee  in  your  bonnet, 

Paint  a  wasp  alighting  on  it ; 

Paint  a  devil's  darning  needle  : 

And  don't  wheedle 

All  the  good  folk  into  spying 

And  trying 

To  find  where  I  am  lying 

Underneath  the  glory 

Of  your  story, 


HYMN  199 

Whereas  before  a  drawing 

Of  a  hornet  with  a  sting, 

They  would  say  with  quick  ha-  ha-  ing 

"  On  my  word,  'tis  just  the  thing ! " 

"  Heaven  mend  her  faults  "  —  Oh ! 

The  wicked  little  Quaker, 

To  go  and  make  her 

Break  her 

Heart,  talking  about  faults 

When  thee  know  I  haven't  any  — 

Or  not  many  — 

Nothing  to  hurt  you, 

Only  just  enough  to  keep 

Me  from  dissolving  into  a  tasteless  pap  of  virtue  — 

Or  to  be  loved  with  holy  fervor 

By  the  New  York  Observer, 

And  the  apostles  of  that  shoddy 

Sort  of  gospel  now  springing  up  from  Oregon  to  Pas- 

samaquoddy, 

Which  teaches  with  a  din, 

Very  pleasant  to  the  din  —  ner 

Not  to  save  the  world  from  sin, 

But  to  fill  the  world  with  sinners  ! 

Come  now  in  good  sooth. 

Little  friend,  speak  the  truth  — 

Thy  love  for  me  such  is 

Thee  put  in  those  touches 


200         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Of  rebuke  and  restriction 

To  quiet  thy  conscience,  not  speak  thy  conviction, 

For  thee  know,  heart  and  hand 

I'm  as  good  as  thee  can  stand ! 

Am  I  not  as  sweet  as  maple  molasses 

When  thee  scold  me  for  fingering  thy  brasses  ?  ^ 

And  did  not  the  poet  say  of  yore, 

Angels  could  no  more  ? 

Ah,  would  not  angels  pity  her 

To  be  scolded  by  the  "  Saintly  Whittier  "  ? 

That's  Mrs.  Hannaford  — 

And  cannot  a  man  afford 

When  pulpits  preach  him 

And  the  women  screech  him 

Up  for  a  saint. 

Not  to  throw  stones  at  them  that  —  aint  ? 

Ah,  dear  poet,  and  dear  friend. 
One  whole  sheet  of  paper  has  come  to  an  end. 


>  Imagine  Whittier  and  me  Bitting  together  one  whole  day  and  two  even- 
ings, talking-  all  the  time.  One  of  the  brass  knobs  on  the  Franklin  stove 
was  loose  and  came  off  in  my  band.  I  turned  it  over  and  remarked  upon  its 
brightness.  He  said,  "Now  doesn't  thee  know  that  thee  is  making  work  ?  '* 
"  How  ?  "  I  asked,  "  Why,  destroying  the  brightness  by  handling  it."  I 
rubbed  it  with  my  handkerchief  and  asked  the  housekeeper  if  I  had  made 
her  any  work.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  you  make  me  no  work.  Mr.  Whittier 
takes  care  of  the  brasses  himself."  .  .  .  The  little  balls  of  the  trimming  of 
my  dress  kept  coming  off  and  were  lying  around  on  the  floor.  I  picked  up 
one  just  as  I  was  coming  away  and  said,  "  There,  I  will  give  thee  that  as  a 
keepsake."  He  laughed,  and  said  he  had  two  in  his  pocket  already!  He 
told  some  company  in  the  evening  that  I  had  talked  so  much  it  made  bim 
hoarse.  —  Extract  from  Letter. 


A  Corner  in  the  Library. 


TEA  PARTY   IN   HAMILTON  201 

And  the  saucy  fly  with  her  jests  and  jeers 
Shall  stop  her  buzzing  about  my  ears. 
She  folds  her  wings,  she  droops  her  eyes 
And  feels  with  an  innermost  glad  surprise 
The  amber  glory  in  which  she  lies  — 
The  joy  and  beauty  and  wonder  wrought 
In  the  golden  glow  of  a  poet's  thought. 


TEA   PARTY   IN   HAMILTON* 

(On  Tuesday  evening,  the  2d  inst.,  the  ladies  of 
Hamilton  gave  a  Tea  Party,  at  which  the  citizens 
generally  availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity  to 
give  welcome  to  the  Hon.  Samuel  W.  Moulton,  mem- 
ber of  Congress  from  Illinois,  formerly  of  Hamilton. 
The  distinguished  guest  was  introduced  in  a  few  com- 
plimentary remarks  by  Hon.  Allen  W.  Dodge,  who 
presided  on  the  occasion.  .  .  .  Mr.  Dodge  then 
said  as  he  understood  from  his  friend  that  it  was  now 
the  common  practice  of  members  of  Congress  to  read 
their  speeches,  he  would  finish  what  he  had  to  say  by 
reading  the  following  verses :) 

OOD  friends  and  neighbors  far  and  near, 
Old  friends  and  neighbors  meeting. 

We  tender  you  the  close  hand-clasp 
Of  warm  and  hearty  greeting. 

^  From  a  Salem  paper  of  180-. 


202         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND  VESTIGES 

Each  happy  face,  each  merry  voice, 

Full  testimony  gives 
That  in  the  hearts  of  all  her  sons 

Old  Hamilton  still  lives. 


She  boasts  no  commerce  on  the  seas, 

No  factories,  wealth  to  give  her  — 
Although  she  has  a  brook  so  big 

She  calls  it  Miles's  River  !  — 
Yet  gazing  from  her  hill-sides  down. 

Her  fields  and  meadows  over. 
You'd  say  the  good  old  quiet  town 

Must  always  live  in  clover. 

She  sits  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

Has  sons  of  every  race  ; 
She  keeps  her  handsome,  dark-haired  Danes 

In  very  thriving  case ; 
Yet  not  a  man  of  all  this  throng 

Will  dare  cast  blame  upon  her. 
If  she  confess  she  holds  her  French 

In  very  special  honor. 

She  has  no  wiles  to  lure  the  weak. 

She  works  with  honest  pride  ; 
Yet  men  from  many  a  distant  spot 

Come  flocking  to  her  side, 


TEA  PARTY  IN  HAMILTON  203 

Convinced  in  spite  of  toil-rough  hands 

Her  gardens  are  a  gay-land, 
And  that  a  right  good  humor  turns 

Her  short  (k)  night  into  Da  (y)  land. 

A  plodder  in  the  good  old  ways 

Is  still  our  ancient  town  ; 
She's  not  ashamed  to  show  a  Patch 

She  loves  a  sober  Brown. 
And  though  her  fear  of  foreign  foes 

But  very  slight  and  small  is, 
'Twould  do  your  eyes  good  but  to  see 

How  high  and  strong  her  Wall-is. 

Of  course  this  fine  old  rural  town 

Counts  woman  as  the  sov'reign, 
And  on  her  busy,  helpful  hand 

All  gently  slips  the  Love-ring  ; 
As  well  as  she  can  afford  to  do  — 

The  reason  surely  holds  pith  — 
For  broad  of  lands  and  deep  of  purse, 

Her  smith  must  be  a  gold-Smith. 

Her  modesty  will  match  her  worth ; 

She  only  calls  him  Knoll-ton, 
Whose  acres  stretching  far  and  wide, 

Might  seem  to  grasp  the  whole  town. 


204         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

But,  though  she  is  a  modest  dame, 
'Tis  something  sure  to  brag  on 

That  all  Ohio  once  was  wrapped 
In  Parson  Cutler's  wagon. 


They  know  her  West,  they  know  her  East, 

As  by  her  fire  she  nestles ; 
To  bridge  her  little  purling  rills 

The  Pine-tree  State  sends  Tres(t)les. 
To  all  the  poor  who  ask  her  alms 

She  gives  both  food  and  lodging. 
And  yet  her  warmest  friends  admit 

She  has  a  trick  of  Dodge-in^. 

And  when  her  house  grows  overfull. 

She  bids  her  children  forth 
To  win  good  name  and  friend  and  fame 

By  honest  work  and  worth ; 
She  gives  her  blessing  to  the  lad  — 

He  goes  a  beardless  boy. 
But  home  he  comes  with  beat  of  drums, 

The  pride  of  Illinois. 

Her  soldier  sons,  her  strength  and  joy. 
Stand  round  her  hearth  to-night ; 

She  binds  a  glory  on  their  brows 
Who  fought  for  truth  and  right. 


TEA   PARTY   IN   HAMILTON  205 

A  love  of  countxy  naught  can  chill, 

In  her  deep  bosom  stirs  ; 
No  rebel  traitor  North  or  South 

Is  ever  son  of  hers  ! 

In  all  her  mirth  she  thinks  of  those 

Who  shall  return  no  more  ; 
They  sleep  on  Georgia's  field  accursed, 

On  Mississippi's  shore  ; 
They  died  'neath  Carolina's  skies, 

They  pressed  Virginia's  sod, 
In  freedom's  holy  cause  they  died  — 

She  trusts  their  souls  to  God. 

Now  dawns  the  morning  bright  and  clear 

Upon  a  ransomed  land ; 
With  garments  cleansed  from  slavery's  stain, 

Before  the  world  we  stand. 
So,  brothers,  give  to  God  the  praise. 

[^Closing  lines  missing.'] 


206         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

TROSY'S   DEFENCE   OF    HERSELF    AGAINST 

THE  CHARGE  OF  SLAUGHTER,  AND 

CRUELTY,  AND  GUILT 

"  -^Tp  ROS Y,  Trosy,  you  mischievous  elf, 

I    Wliat  have  you,  pray,  to  say  for  yourself  ?  " 

But  Trosy  was  now 

Asleep  on  the  mow. 
And  only  drawled  dreamily,  "  Ma-e-ow." 

"  Trosy,  Trosy,  come  here  to  me,  — 
The  naughtiest  Trosy  I  ever  did  see  I 
I  know  very  well  what  you've  been  about ; 
Don't  try  to  conceal  it,  murder  will  out. 

Why  do  you  lie  so  easily  there  ?  " 
"01  have  had  a  breakfast  rare  ! " 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  hunt  for  a  mouse  ?  " 
"  Oh,  there's  nothing  fit  to  eat  in  the  house ! " 

"  Dear  me  !  Mrs.  Kitty, 

This  is  a  pity ; 
But  I  guess  the  cause  of  your  change  of  ditty. 
What  has  become  of  the  beautiful  thrush 
That  built  her  nest  in  the  heap  of  brush  ? 
A  brace  of  young  robins  as  good  as  the  best ; 
A  round  little,  brown  little,  snug  little  nest ; 
Four  little  eggs  all  green  and  gay. 
Four  little  birds  all  bare  and  gray, 


TROSY'S   DEFENCE  207 

And  Papa  Robin  went  foraging  round, 

Aloft  on  the  trees,  and  alight  on  the  ground. 

North  wind  or  south  wind,  he  cared  not  a  groat. 

So  he  popped  a  fat  worm  down  each  wide-open  throat ; 

And  Mamma  Robin  through  sun  and  storm 

Hugged  them  up  close,  and  kept  them  all  warm ; 

And  Tripoli  watched  the  dear  little  things, 

Till  the  feathers  pricked  out  on  their  pretty  wings. 

And  their  eyes  peeped  up  o'er  the  rim  of  the  nest. 

Trosy,  Trosy,  you  know  the  rest. 

The  nest  is  empty,  and  silent,  and  lone  ; 

Where  are  the  four  little  robins  gone  ? 

Oh,  Puss  !  you  have  done  a  cruel  deed ! 

Your  eyes,  do  they  weep  ?  your  heart,  does  it  bleed  ? 

Do  you  not  feel  your  bold  cheeks  turning  pale  ? 

Not  you  !     You  are  chasing  your  wicked  tail, 

Or  you  just  cuddle  down  in  the  hay,  and  purr, 

Curl  up  in  a  ball,  and  refuse  to  stir. 

But  you  need  not  try  to  look  good  and  wise ; 

I  see  little  robins,  old  Puss,  in  your  eyes ; 

And  this  morning,  just  as  the  clock  struck  four, 

There  was  some  one  opening  the  kitchen  door. 

And  caught  you  creeping  the  wood-pile  over,  — 

Make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  Kitty  Clover !  " 

Then  Trose 
Arose 

Rubbed  up  her  nose. 
And  looked  very  much  as  if  coming  to  blows ; 


208         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Rounded  her  back, 
Leaped  from  the  stack, 
On  her  feet,  at  my  feet,  came  down  with  a  whack. 
When  fairly  awake,  she  stretched  out  her  paws. 
Smoothed   down   her  whiskers,  and  unsheathed   her 
claws. 
Winked  her  green  eyes. 
With  an  air  of  surprise. 
And  spoke  rather  plainly  for  one  of  her  size, 

«  Killed  a  few  robins !     Well,  what  of  that  ? 
What's  virtue  in  man  can't  be  vice  in  a  cat. 
There's  a  thing  or  two  /  should  like  to  know,  — 
Who  killed  the  chicken  a  week  ago  ? 
For  nothing  at  all  that  I  could  spy 
But  to  make  an  overgrown  chicken  pie. 
'Twixt  you  and  me, 
'Tis  plain  to  see, 
The  odds  is,  you  like  fricassee, 
While  my  brave  maw 
Owns  no  such  law 
Content  with  viands  a-Za-raw. 

"  Who  killed  the  robins  ?     Oh,  yes !    Oh,  yes  ! 
I  would  get  the  cat,  now,  into  a  mess  ! 

Who  was  it  put 

An  old  stocking-foot 

Tied  up  with  strings. 

And  such  shabby  things, 


TROSY'S   DEFENCE  209 

On  to  the  end  of  a  sharp,  slender  pole, 
Dipped  it  in  oil,  and  set  fire  to  the  whole, 
And  burnt  all  the  way  from  here  to  the  miller's 
The  nests  of  the  sweet  young  caterpillars  ? 
Grilled  fowl,  indeed  ! 
Why,  as  I  read. 
You  had  not  even  the  plea  of  need ; 
For  all  you  boast 
Such  wholesale  roast, 
I  saw  no  sign  at  tea  or  toast, 
Of  even  a  caterpillar's  ghost. 

"  Who  killed  the  robins  ?    Well,  I  should  think  ! 

Hadn't  somebody  better  wink 

At  my  peccadilloes,  if  houses  of  glass 

Won't  do  to  throw  stones  from  at  those  who  pass? 

I  had  four  little  kittens  a  month  ago,  — 

Black,  and  malta,  and  white  as  snow ; 

And  not  a  very  long  while  before 

I  could  have  shown  you  three  kittens  more. 

And  so  in  batches  of  fours  and  threes. 

Looking  back  as  long  as  you  please, 

You  would  find,  if  you  read  my  story  all. 

There  were  kittens  from  time  immemorial. 

But  what  am  I  now  ?     A  cat  bereft. 

Of  all  my  kittens,  but  one  is  left. 

I  make  no  charges,  but  this  I  ask,  — 

What  made  such  a  splurge  in  the  waste-water  cask  ? 


210         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

You  are  quite  tender-hearted,  oh,  not  a  doubt ! 
But  only  suppose  old  Black  Pond  could  speak  out. 
Oh,  nonsense !    Don't  mutter  excuses  to  me  ! 
Qui  facit  per  aliumfacit  per  se." 

"  Well,  Trosy,  I  think  full  enough  has  been  said, 
And  you  may  as  well  canter  back  into  bed. 

A  very  fine  pass 

Things  have  come  to,  alas ! 

If  men  must  be  meek. 

While  pussy-cats  speak 
Grave  moral  reflections  in  Latin  and  Greek." 


TO   SECRETARY   ROBESON" 

[Washikgton,  D.C,  1872. 
.  .  .  The  other  day  Secretary  Robeson  sent 
around  to  me  to  read  a  story  book  called  "  The  Look- 
ing-glass World,"  telling  how  everything  happened 
"  back  side  before,"  —  among  other  things  that  in  law- 
trials  they  had  the  punishment  first,  then  the  trial, 
and  after  that  the  crime.  You  know  Charles  A.  Dana 
of  "  The  Sun  "  has  been  making  charges  against  Sec- 
retary R.  They  have  had  an  investigation,  which  has 
so  far  completely  exonerated  the  Secretary.  When  I 
returned  the  book  I  wrote  the  following  verse,  but 
wrote  it  back-handed  so  that  you  had  to  hold  it  up  to 
a  looking-glass  to  read  it  —  but  it  is  too  much  trouble 
to  do  that  now.] 


TO   MRS.   MARY   CHANDLER   HALE  211 

UR    Knight  of   "  The  Sun "  must  have  studied 
this  book 

And  evolved  thence  his  marvellous  plan 
Of  first  bringing  evidence,  trial,  and  proof 

Against  the  appointed  man  — 
And  trusting  to  luck  that  in  proper  time 
He'll  be  sui-e  to  commit  the  proper  crime  ! 


April  16,  1872. 


TO   MRS.   MARY   CHANDLER   HALE 

(When  I  was  in  New  Brunswick,  I  went  to  many 
shops  for  a  shell  back-comb,  but  found  none. 
Saturday  Mrs.  Hale  sent  me  over  one  —  from  Tif- 
fany's, New  York,  with  a  note  saying  that  New  York 
had  them  if  St.  John  did  not.  It  is  very  handsome. 
I  sent  her  accordingly  this  note  : ) 

iF  St.  John  as  a  man  and  a  brother 

I  shall  certainly  make  no  complaints, 
But  my  sea-shell  shall  sing  me  another 
Lily-white,  lily -fair,  lily-slender. 
The  friendly -sly,  stately-sweet  sender. 
Our  gracious,  high-hearted,  and  tender 
St.  Mary,  the  Flower  of  All  Saints. 

January,   1876. 


212         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 
MOTHER    IPSWICH 

By  One  of  Her  Grandchildren  ^ 

(On  the  16th  of  August,  1884,  Ipswich  celebrated 
her  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  birthday,  when  the 
following  poem  was  read  :  ) 

THRONED   on  her  rock-bound  hill,  comely,  and 
strong,  and  free, 
She  sends  a  daughter's  greeting  to  Ipswich  over 
the  sea, 
But  she  folds  to  her  motherly  heart,  with  welcome 

motherly  sweet. 
The  children  home  returning  to  sit  at  her  beautiful 

feet. 
Fair  is  her  heritage,  fair  with  the  blue  of  the  bountiful 

sky; 
Green  to  the  warm,  white  sand  her  billowy  marshes 

lie: 
Her  summer  calm  is  pulsed  with  the  beat  of  the  bend- 
ing oar 
Where  the  river  shines  and  sleeps  in  the  shadows  of 

Turkey  shore. 
Down  from  the  storied  Past  tremble  the  legends  still 
As  the  woe  of  the   Indian  maiden  wails  over  from 
Heart  Break  Hill, 

1  Daughter  of  Hannah  Stanwood,  granddaughter  of  Capt.  Isaac  Stanwood 

of  Ipswich. 


MOTHER   IPSWICH  213 

And,  alas  !  the  unnamable  footprint !  and  the  lapstone 

dropped  below ! 
From  places  so  pleasant  —  poor  devil  —  no  wonder  he 

hated  to  go ! 
Fair  is  my  realm,  saith  the  mother,  but  fairest  of  all 

■  my  domain, 
Are  the  sons  I  have  reared  and  the  daughters,  sturdy 

of  body  and  brain, 
Tender  of  heart  and  of  conscience,  ready  with  flag 

unfurled, 
For  service  at  home,  or,  if  need  be,  to  the  uttermost 

bounds  of  the  world. 
Never  my  bells  of  the  morning  fail  to  the  morning  air 
With  their  summons  of  young  minds  to  learning,  with 

their  summons  of  all  souls  to  prayer. 
Gracious  yon  pile  where  are  stored  me  the  treasures 

of  thought  to-day  — 
More  gracious  my  children  who  poured  me  their  wealth 

of  the  far  Cathay. 
Mourn  your  lost  leader,  my  hamlet,  sore  needed,  yet 

never  again  ^ 
To  mingle  his  words  of  wisdom  in  the  wide  councils 

of  men  ; 
Nor  forget  whose  hand  first  plucked  its  secret  from 

the  Mountain-King's  stormy  breast. 
And   held   iip   the  torch  of  freedom  over  the  great 

Northwest.^ 

'Hon.  Allen  W.  Dodge,  of  Hamilton. 
•Rev.  Manasaeh  Cutler,  D.D.,  of  Hamilton. 


214         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Thrilled  to  him,  hearts  of  the  people,  whose  eyes  were 
a  smouldering  fire, 

Whose  voice  to  the  listening  multitude  rang  like  an 
angel's  lyre,^ 

But  I  hear  the  trill  of  light  laughter  in  the  thickets 
of  feathery  fronds, 

Where  a  little  lad  dares  for  white  lilies  the  deep  of 
Chebacco  ponds. 

Rest  in  the  peace  of  God  forever,  O  man  of  good-will, 

Who  gathered  the  healing  of  Heaven  in  the  sunshine 
of  Sweet  Briar  Hill.  ^ 

Far  from  the  city's  tumult,  with  my  soft  airs  over- 
blown — 

In  my  arms  of  love  I  hold  him,  a  stranger,  and  yet 
my  own. 

Where  the  footsteps  of  Maro  wandered,  where  the 
waters  of  Helicon  flow, 

Where  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  wave,  where  the  path  of 
a  people  should  go, 

0  blessed  blind  eyes  that  see  —  from  the  wrong  divid- 
ing the  right, 

Shed  on  the  darkness  of  day  the  gleam  of  your  radiant 
night !  ^ 

And  thou,  O  Desire  of  the  Nation,  loved  from  the  sea 
to  the  sea. 


I  Hon.  Rufus  Choate,  of  Essex. 
'  Rev.  John  Cotton  Smith,  D.D. 

*  Rev.  John  Phelps  Cowles,  married  to  the  daughter  of  Eanlce  Stanwood, 
granddaughter  of  Capt.  Isaac  Stanwood,  of  Ipswich. 


MOTHER  IPSWICH  216 

High  above  stain  as  a  star,  still  upward  thy  pathway 

be! 
By  thy  blood,  of  the  stately  Midland,  by  thy  strength, 

of  the  Northern  Pine, 
By  the  sacred  fire  bright  on  thy  hearthstone,  I  name 

thee  and  claim  thee  mine. 
Come  to  me,  dear  my  children,  from  every  land  under 

the  sun  ; 
Nay,  I  feel  by  the  stir  of  my  spirit  that  all  worlds  are 

but  one ; 
Nay,  I  know  by  my  quickening  heart-throbs,  they  are 

gathering  by  my  side  — 
Veiled  by  God's  grace  with  His  glory  —  the  Dead  who 

have  never  died. 
Fathers    whose    steadfast    uprightness,    their    sons 

through  no  time  can  forget  — 
Mothers  whose  tenderness  breathes  in  many  an  old 

home  yet  — 
Hushed  is  the  air  for  their  coming,  holy  the  light  with 

their  love ; 
What  shall  the  grateful  earth  pledge  to  the  Heaven 

above  ? 
The  best  that  we  have  to  give :  loyalty  staunch  and 

pure 
To  the  land  they  love  and  the  God  they  served,  while 

the  earth  and  the  heavens  endure. 
We  can  bear  to  the  future  no  greater  than  to  us  the 

past  hath  brought  — 
Faith  to  the  lowliest  duty,  truth  to  the  loftiest  thought. 


216        CHIPS,  FRAGMENTS,  AND  VESTIGES 

TO  LITTLE  "c" 

WEET  and  smiling  as  you  may  be, 
I  Pretty  little  Christmas  baby,^ 
Just  so  sunny  be  the  weather 
When  you  three  strike  out  together,^ 
All  the  mountains  bow  before  you ! 
Seas  cease  storming  to  adore  you, 
From  the  Newbury  meadow  reaches 
To  the  San  Francisco  beaches  — 
From  her  golden  sunset  highlands 
To  the  gentle  Christian  islands  ! 
But  oh  !  I  grudge  your  baby  babble 
To  that  Honolulu  rabble  ; 
And  your  grand-dad  oft  will  grumble 
That  your  little  feet  must  stumble 
First  upon  Hawaiian  earth 
And  not  the  land  that  gave  you  birth. 
But  we  promise,  dainty  maiden, 
Not  to  be  too  sorrow-laden, 
If  as  sweet  you  will  come  back  ^  as 
When  you  sought  the  mild  Kanakaa 
And  you  smallest  of  small  girls, 
When  you  gather  South  Sea  pearls, 
Just  fling  over  a  few  dozens 
To  your  Barbadosian  cousins.* 

1  Born  Whittier'8  Birthday,  1884. 

*  For  Hawaii. 
»  Enters  Smith  College,  1902. 

*  The  Dlmmicks. 


BIRTHDAYS  217 

Speed  the  day  when  favoring  breeze 
From  the  warm  Caribbean  seas, 
From  the  fragrant  Western  isles, 
Scorning  all  the  hindering  miles. 
Home  to  common  household  joys 
Bring  for  good  our  girls  and  boys. 
Heaven  bless  bye-baby  bunting,  — 
More  for  rhymes  I'll  not  go  hunting, 
When  you  long  my  muse  to  throttle  — 
But  don't,  my  dears,  forget  the  bottle ! 


BIRTHDAYS 

^NE,  two,  three  —  A  witch  of  a  baby  —  She  ! 
Four,  five  —  the   sturdiest,    doughtiest,  pout- 
ingest,  floutingest,  wittiest,  prettiest,  spark- 
lingest,  darklingest  damsel  alive. 
Stormf ul  and  starful  —  seven,  eight  — 
Star-glow  deepens  and  storms  abate. 
Nine,  ten  —  beloved  of  maidens,  besought  of  men  — 
Wilful  and  winsome  still,  I  wis  ; 
But,  Faint-Heart  and  Fear-Heart,  tell  me  this  : 
How  had  the  changeling 
Become  an  anffeling  — 
Care-taking,  love-making. 
What  breath  had  kissed  her 
The  little  sprite  mocking  the  little  imp  shocking. 


218         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Into  a  warm,  wise,  mother-sister  ; 
Loyal  in  stress,  playing  in  trial 
Heaven's  own  role  of  self-denial ! 
Eleven,  twelve,  thirteen,  fourteen,  —  weaving  the  robe 

she  shall  pay  her  court  in  — 
Fifteen,  sixteen,   seventeen,  eighteen  —  roaming  two 

worlds  she  shall  find  her  fate  in  — 
Nineteen,  twenty,  twenty-one  —  the  bud  has  opened, 

the  Summer  begun  — 
Twenty -two  —  He  sings  —  but  afar,  as  the  Angels  do ! 
Twenty-three  —  and  the  spell  of  his  singing  falls  even 

on  me ! 
Twenty-four  —  is  there  more  ? 

Is   it   love  ?   it  is  doubt  —  it  is   naught  —  it   is 

all  — 
It  is  freedom  perfected  through  absolute  thrall ! 
Twenty-five  —  scarce  alive  to  the  power  of  the  dower 
Of  her  great  soul's  most  grave  and  magnificent  hour. 
She  fronts  the  veiled  future.   Fare  forth  without  fear 
In  a  world  that  has  love  for  its  running  gear  ! 
Bringing  order,  or  patience,  or  rapture,  or  pain. 
Love  alone,  in  Earth's   turmoil,  can   hold  the  heart 
sane. 
To  be  loved  —  or  loved  not  —  is  as  Heaven  may 

send  — 
To  love  is  the  true  Divine  —  world  without  end. 

Full  clear  and  quaint  and  in  solemn  rhyme 
Sang  the  sweet  saint  of  olden  time : 


THE  FLOWER  219 

"  All  that  we  know  of  Saints  above 

Is  that  they  sing  and  that  they  love." 
And  thus  we  share  with  that  dear  pair 

Whose  memory  lingers  everywhere, 
For  well  we  know  of  saints  below 

Or  smooth  or  rough  the  paths  they  trod 
No  higher  bliss  than  this  : 

He  who  loves  best  is  likest  God. 

THE   FLOWER 

IN  the  silken  and  splendid  gloom  of  a  pansy  purple 
room, 
Where  a  soul's  rose-gardens  bloom  — 
Fluttered  astir  and  sweet  by  the  far,  faint,  rhythmic 
beat 
Of  the  beautiful,  dancing  feet  — 
Silent  and  all  unknown,  was  the  seed  of  Heaven  sown 

From  its  free  fields  over-blown. 
While  the  soul  that  brooded  there  knew  not  if  Earth 

could  be  fair ; 
Asked  only  for  patience,  from  Fate  wisely  to  work  and 
to  wait. 
No  sunshine  or  early  or  late, 
No  softness  of  summer  air  won  the  world  a  welcome 
to  wear. 
But  grim  woods  gray  and  bare, 
For  their  vanished  joys  made  moan,  for  their  glow  and 
glory  gone. 


220        CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND  VESTIGES 

Yet  never  stealing  astray  for  the   pulseless,  pitiless 
day 
The  winged  seed  found  way 
From  afar  through  the  frozen  zone  to  a  soil  that  knew 

its  own. 
Swift  shrinking  from  the  light,  shy  shrinking  out  of 
sight  — 
Ah  !  Sweet,  what  words  can  tell 
Our  miracle  ? 

Taught  by  no  touch  of  toil,  untainted  by  earthly  moil, 

Slow  from  its  sacred  soil. 
Uprose  the  Sacred  Flower  fashioned  of  inward  power, 
Nourished  of  Heaven's  grace  to  bless  one  waiting  face, 
No  weed  of  tendance  there,  no  claim  on  thought  or  care. 

Frail  life  to  strengthen  or  spare 
Since  each  fresh  dawning  hour  brings  certain  dower. 

All  gales  from  the  year  that  blow,  white  chill  from 
wide  hills  of  snow. 
The  Morning-red  and  glow 
Of  evening  skies  in  June,  fire  of  the  fervid  noon, 
Pallor  of  midnight  moon, 
Strain  of  storm  and  stress  of  sun 
Minister  manifold  all  as  one 
To  the  Ineffable  Life  begun. 
But  without  end.     Its  radiant  colors  blend 
Of  all  the  seasons  send, 


HAMILTON  221 

And  from  its  mystic  heart,  such  passionate  perfumes 
part, 

Though  half  its  wondrous  art 
Lies  yet  in  secret  chambers  coiled  and  curled, 

Its  fragrance  fills  the  world. 

HAMILTON 

Written  hy  Request,  for  the  Celebration  of  the  100th  Birthday  of  the 
Town,  June  21, 1893 

■p  from  his  sweet-scented  islands,  his  soul  with 
genius  aflame, 
Welding  his  life  to  the  Nation's,  radiant  young  Ham- 
ilton came  — 
^  Our  Infanta  saw  him  and  loved  him  and  named  her- 
self with  his  name. 

Blessed  the  Sponsors,  our  fathers,  their  wagon  thus 
hitched  to  a  Star. 

No  Frenchville,  South  Ipswich,  or  Hogtown,  but,  ring- 
ing afield  and  afar, 

Hamilton  —  pride  of  the  people  wherever  patriots  are. 

Following  a  lofty  Leader  —  priest,  scholar,  and  states- 
man in  one. 

Resting  now  in  yon  churchyard  from  his  labor  under 
the  Sun, 

While  a  Nation  reaps  the  reward  of  his  strenuous 
work  well  done ;  — 

1  The  Infanta  Eulalie  of  Spain  was  visiting  the  U.S.  1893. 


222         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,    AND   VESTIGES 

Thus  to  the  Man  of  the  South  our  Men  of  the  Xorth 

gave  greeting ; 
Jura  calling  to  Alps,  Hero  with  Hero  meeting ! 
Alas  !  for  the  strong  laid  low  !     Alas !  for  the  glory 

fleeting ! 


Envy  and   malice   found  him  —  Hamilton,   high   of 

heart ;  — 
The  service  of  manhood  bound  him  —  so  seemed  —  to 

the  weaker  part. 
He  looked  in  the  face  of  death,  but  hid  the  envenomed 

dart. 


Softly  he   stole   to  the  chamber   where   slumbering 

innocence  lay ; 
Soft  to  his  own  pressed  the  child's  soft  cheek  from 

whom  he  must  part  that  day ;  — 
"  Our  Father   which   art  in   Heaven,"  the  little  one 

heard  him  say  — 


Then  fronted  the  bitter  bullet  —  a  Nation's  heart  was 

riven ; 
Never  a  sin  was  sinned,  with  so  little  to  be  forgiven ! 
Never  a  sin  was   sinned,  so  like  to  the   virtues  of 

Heaven ! 


HAMILTON  223 

Mothers,  teaching  your  children  to  prattle  their  even- 
ing prayers  — 

Devotion  as  dear  to  God,  't  may  appear,  as  the  pano- 
plied priest's  who  bears 

Heaven's  high  commands  in  his  lifted  hands  on  the 
great  world's  altar  stairs  ;  — 

Join  to  the  broken  "  Our  Father  "  of  the  voices  sweet 
and  low 

A  thought  of  him  who  breathed  it  in  his  deathly 
stress  of  woe, 

For  him  a  prayer  whose  name  we  wear  since  a  hun- 
dred years  ago ! 


Our  lady  sits  on  her  hills,  smiling  across  to  the  sea ; 
Our  Mother  smiles  down  on  her  children  toiling   at 

harvests  to  be  ; 
But  she  holds  evermore  her  Ideal,  fearless,  discerning, 

and  free. 

Strangers  have   idly  thought  her   rustic   spirit  was 

tame ; 
With  futile  treasures  have  sought  to   purchase  her 

priceless  name  ! 
What  are  silver  and  gold  to  lay  in  the  scales  with  that 

cherished  fame  ? 


224         CHIPS,   FRAGMENTS,   AND   VESTIGES 

Our  Lady  looks  wistfully  West  where  the  Sun  sets 

his  golden  bar, 
If,  haply,  that  glory  of  glow  be  the  Golden  Gates  ajar 
To  the  Heaven  of  heavens  beyond,  where  the   Van- 
ished and  Glorious  are ! 

And  it's  oh !  to  be  true  to  the  faithful  and  few 
Whose  unlaureled  lives  led  the  last  Avatar  ; 
To  the  simple  and  brave  who  have  gone  to  the 

grave, 
But  our  wagon  made  fast  to  a  Star ! 


Y 


TO   MY   COMRADES   IN   CHRIST 

("  The  Salvation  Army"  1894.) 

OUR  happy  voices  join 

And  strike  the  heavenly  song  ; 

Ye  pilgrims  in  Jehovah's  ways, 
With  music  pass  along ! 


See  Salem's  golden  spires 

In  beauteous  prospect  rise, 
And  brighter  crowns  than  mortals  wear 

Far  sparkle  through  the  skies. 


irCSB  tlBRAW 

SOUTHERN  RE0>0hAJ;'-««J^^j^j,.,3g, 
405Hllgard  A«"S*'J;fieriallolhe  library 


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